.^■UNIVEM/A 


^TJMNYSO^ 


^AOSANCElfj> 


^UIBRARY^ 


^UIBRA 

5 


\0: 


^wmm* 


JJUj; 


so 

^MAINfHtf^ 


I  m 


.^OF-CAll 


^ahvmih^      ^ahvm 


^EUNIVER% 


'ftuDNVSOl^ 


^vlOSANI 


"%3AIN 


,0FCAl 


^OFCAl 


,\W(JNI\TOa 


>■•    ?3 


v^lOS-ANI 


"%3MN 


IK\V 


<K       «$HIBW 


^5 


\q. 


^\ 


Iff* 


^0FCAIIF(%        ^OKAll 

1  jfrrl  iTff 


inn  a  i> v*  /*\ 


•# 


,^[UNIVER% 


<\\  \ 


l\V 


UlY, 

I 

fOI 

mi 


1 


Misunderstood  Children 

SKETCHES  TAKEN  FROM  LIFE 


BY 

ELIZABETH  HARRISON 

AUTHOR     OF    "A    STUDY    OF     CHILD-NATURE,"    "TWO 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  FOOTHILLS,"  "SOME  SILENT 

TEACHERS,"   "IN    STORYLAND,"    ETC. 


"There  are  doubtless  many  ivays  in  which  men  may  make 
a  new  heaven  and  a  neiv  earth  of  their  divelling  place,  but 
the  simplest  of  all  ways  is  through  a  fond,  discerning  and 
individual  care  of  each  child." 


FOURTH  EDITION 


PUBLISHED  BY 
THE  NATIONAL  KINDERGARTEN  COLLEGE, 

Chicago. 


copyright,  1910 

By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


BECKTOLD 

PRINTING  &  BOOK  MFG.  CO. 
ST.  LOUIS.  MO. 


Hz_4 


^jAt*  AooA  ti  aeaieatea 
to 
K^/iae    man/i    A/ewed   momerd-    wAio,    /AoaaA 
itut/cnfo     in     ma     " *sfflot/ier4-c/a44ei, "    Aave 
taaaAt  me    fa?1    mow    lAian    Jr    coata    teacAi 
tAiem. 

^JAec/*  eapneitneji,  tAter/*-  wiic  ana  Atwma 
/lattence,  {/{,€(/<■  conzecrauon  to  iAcf/<-  Af'aAi  ana 
/iota  ox>rA,  Aave  maae  me  watize,  m  /ia?f  at 
teaM,  wAat  tn(4  aio^ta  of  oa?<4  us///  ve  toAen 
a//  mot/tew  aataAen  to  /Ac  a^eatnej^  of  /Are'/*- 
vocation. 

(&Aza/f/A  z/la/ 

Jtattona/  *Mt-nacpaa/<t<  n    (bo/tr  ae, 
lAt'cago,    Jr/t. 


'a/wjon. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
Foreword   i 

Sammie's  Prayer 9 

The  Boy  Who  Hated  School 19 

Little  Mary 28 

The  Twins 40 

For  Father's  Amusement 51 

A  Sunday  Morning  Diversion $$ 

The  Geography  Lesson 64 

The  Sand-Pile 73 

A  Shop  Scene 83 

Jack  and  The  Alley  Boys 90 

The  Boy  and  The  Scarlet  Coat 99 

Katie  MacMa'hon 105 

A  Starved  Soiil 125 

Daughters  of  Men 133 

Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's 139 

Gertrude's   Story 151 

Miss  Eleanor's  Garden 158 


FOREWORD. 


Of  the  three  great  World  Disciplines,  Re- 
ligion, Philosophy  and  Psychology,  the  last 
named  is  much  the  latest  and  the  least  under- 
stood. Men  have  struggled  with  the  concep- 
tion of  God  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  con- 
sciousness. The  rudest,  most  uncivilized  sav- 
ages have  some  form  of  worship  for  the  un- 
seen power  that  is  greater  than  man;  and  it  is 
an  interesting  study  to  trace  the  slow  but 
steady  growth  of  the  God-idea  from  the  fetish 
worship  of  the  early  race  to  the  conception  of 
God  as  advanced  by  the  Christian  church  of 
to-day.  We  need  but  to  look  back  to  the 
Egyptian  ideas  of  the  gods,  or  even  to  the 
conception  of  God  as  held  by  the  Middle 
Ages,  to  realize  how  this  great  World-Disci- 
pline has  advanced  and  enlarged  man's  con- 
ception of  Divine  Power.  Philosophy  also  has 
taken  enormous  strides  since  the  days  of  old 
Thales  of  Miletus,  who  six  hundred  years  be- 
fore the  Christian  era  declared  the  essence  of 
all  things  to  be  water.  He  was  the  greatest  of 
philosophic  thinkers  in  his  day.  We  smile  now 

1 


2  Foreword. 

at  the  childishness  of  this  effort  to  define  the 
essential  unity  of  Nature. 

And  yet  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when 
mankind  will  read  with  incredulity  of  the  idea 
of  Man  which  has  been  held  in  the  past  and  is 
still  held  by  many  unthinking  or  prejudiced 
people  of  to-day.  Psychology,  the  latest  of 
the  all-embracing  Disciplines  of  the  mind  of 
man,  is,  in  its  way,  doing  as  much  to  clarify 
and  enlarge  our  ideas  of  Man  as  Religion  and 
Philosophy  have  done  in  the  matter  of  giving 
us  better  and  more  exalted  ideas  of  God  and 
Nature. 

Which  one  of  us  is  it  who  does  not  feel 
that  he  or  she  possesses  unused  ability  that 
might  have  developed  into  real  talent,  some- 
times almost  into  "genius"  if  it  had  been  given 
a  chance.  It  is  for  the  sake  of  these  "might- 
bes"  in  each  human  soul  that  I  plead  for  a  bet- 
ter and  more  sympathetic  understanding  of 
children.  No  inheritance  of  money  or  of  social 
position,  so  fiercely  striven  after  by  so  many 
parents,  can  compare  with  the  gift  of  a  free 
and  fully  developed  childhood. 

That  this  gift  may  be  within  the  reach  of 
all  earnest-thinking  parents  is  what  makes  the 
practical  results  already  attained  by  Psychol- 


Foreword.  3 

ogy  so  Important.  What  may  yet  be  attained 
is  beyond  our  present  power  to  imagine. 

Our  best  schools  have  already  been  trans- 
formed by  the  placing  of  the  study  of  chil- 
dren's instincts  and  interests  upon  a  scientific 
basis.  The  sulky  child,  the  moody  child,  the 
quick-tempered  child,  the  restless  child,  the 
slow  child,  are  no  longer  considered  an  af- 
fliction sent  by  the  Lord,  nor  are  the  boy  who 
steals  and  the  girl  who  lies  regarded  as  speci- 
mens of  original  sin.  The  inheritance  of  the 
child  is,  if  possible,  ascertained,  his  environ- 
ment is  studied,  as  it  is  now  a  well-established 
fact  that  these  play  an  important  part  in  his 
makeup  and  must  be  taken  into  account  in  the 
treatment  of  the  case  if  any  permanent  good 
is  to  be  accomplished. 

It  is  also  now  an  accepted  scientific  fact 
that  the  child's  bodily  condition  reacts  upon 
his  mental  condition.  A  physically  uncom- 
fortable child  cannot  learn  as  readily  as  a 
child  whose  physical  organs  are  in  right  work- 
ing condition.  Hence  underfed  and  ill-kept 
children  are  fed  and  given  baths  in  our  best 
schools,  the  seats  and  desks  in  the  schoolroom 
are  adjusted  to  their  heights,  the  windows  are 
arranged  so  that  the  light  will  not  irritate  the 


4  Foreword. 

eyes,  and  proper  ventilation  of  the  school- 
room is  sought,  in  order  that  each  child  may 
get  the  maximum  of  good  out  of  his  school  life. 
Physiological-psychology  has  also  taught  us 
of  the  reaction  of  mind  upon  body.  An  un- 
happy child  cannot  digest  his  food  as  well  as  a 
child  who  is  in  a  cheerful  mood,  nor  can  he 
study  as  well.  Hence,  the  rod  has  vanished 
and  the  ferrule  is  hidden,  and  that  still  worse 
instrument  of  torture — sarcasm — is  disap- 
pearing. An  atmosphere  of  sunshine  and 
cheerfulness  is  demanded  in  order  that  a  child 
may  be  kept  in  good  physical  condition.  I 
know  of  some  wise  mothers  who  so  fully  un- 
derstand this  interaction  of  body  and  mind 
that  they  never  permit  the  mealtime  to  be 
taken  for  scolding  or  criticism.  In  fact,  some 
of  them  save  up  the  funny  story  or  interesting 
incident  until  the  mealtime  so  that  the  table 
hour  becomes  the  happiest  hour  in  their  chil- 
dren's day.  And  it  is  well  worth  the  effort, 
for  happiness  is  as  necessary  for  normal, 
wholesome  growth  in  childhood  as  sunshine  is 
necessary  for  the  right  growth  of  plants.  The 
fact  that  too  much  excitement  or  too  great 
fatigue  causes  blood  poison  is  another  of  the 
important   facts  which  a   scientific  study  of 


Foreword  5 

children  has  established.  Much  more  could 
be  said  upon  this  subject,  but  this  is  not  the 
time  or  the  place  for  it. 

Physiological-psychology  has  thrown  much 
valuable  light  upon  the  reaction  of  body  and 
mind;  but  it  does  not  study  the  self,  it  studies 
the  outer  manifestations  of  the  self.  The  great 
value  of  Psychology  as  a  World-Discipline 
is  deeper  and  more  profound,  unfolding  to  us 
the  laws  by  which  mental  and  spiritual  growth 
can  best  be  developed.  For  example — we 
know  now  that  a  child  is  only  in  the  serene, 
contented  condition  of  mind  which  best  pro- 
motes inner  growth  when  he  is  following  a  ra- 
tional line  of  conduct — rational  as  far  as  he 
can  comprehend  it.  The  child  who  is  left  toov 
long  to  his  own  government  becomes  capri- 
cious, fretful  and  unhappy.  Most  of  the  ob- 
stinacy manifested  by  children  is  due  to  the 
caprice  of  those  in  control  of  them.  The  child 
does  not  see  the  rationality  of  the  command. 
To  him  it  is  the  parent's  or  teacher's  indivi- 
dual will  pitted  against  his  individual  will,  and 
the  instinct  of  freedom  in  him  rises  up  to  re- 
sist as  surely  as  certain  gases  rise  to  the  sur- 
face when  other  gases  are  added  to  a  chem- 
ical combination.     It  may  not  be  your  fault 


6  Foreword. 

that  you  suddenly  find  yourself  in  conflict  with 
an  obstinate  child,  but  it  is  somebody's  fault 
that  he  has  not  learned  the  impersonal  justice 
that  lies  in  every  rational  command  to  the  ex- 
tent that  he  has  been  able  to  grasp  it.  What  I 
mean  is  that  arguing  with  an  obstinate  child 
never  helps  him.  What  he  needs,  in  most 
cases,  is  to  be  given  the  rational  grounds  for  a 
command  calmly  and  in  an  impersonal  way, 
and  then  be  given  time  and  quiet  in  which  to 
conquer  himself.  If  the  command  is  of  such  a 
nature  that  he  cannot  grasp  the  rationality  of 
it,  or  if  he  is  in  such  a  condition  that  he  will 
not  accept  it,  then,  of  course,  authority  must 
be  used.  Too  much  license  is  as  bad  for  a 
child  as  is  too  much  control.  The  former  de- 
velops weakness  of  purpose  and  waywardness 
that  unfits  him  for  personal  comradeship  and 
co-operation  in  the  world's  work;  the  latter 
suppresses  him  and  hinders  the  growth  of  that 
originality  by  means  of  which  he  can  best  add 
to  the  higher  enrichment  of  mankind.  The  one 
is  as  bad  as  the  other.  The  right  understand- 
ing of  the  development  of  the  will  from  mere 
desire  to  rational  choice  helps  us  to  avoid  the 
Scylla  of  undue  authority  on  the  one  hand  and 
the  Charybdis  of  undue  license  on  the  other 
hand. 


Foreword. 


Perhaps  an  anecdote  will  best  illustrate  this  important 
point  in  child-training : 

The  story  was  told  me  by  a  young  Englishman  who 
was  visiting  for  the  first  time  his  brother  in  Chicago, 
who  had  married  an  American  woman,  well  versed  in 
the  psychology  of  the  kindergarten.  "The  first  evening 
after  my  arrival,"  said  he,  "my  little  niece  of  six  was 
vexed  by  some  trifle,  and  thereupon  she  set  up  a  lusty 
bawl.  My  sister-in-law  said,  without  the  slightest  tone 
of  disturbance  in  her  voice,  'Charlotte,  your  noise  is  dis- 
turbing the  rest  of  us.  You  must  either  stop  bawling 
or  go  upstairs  to  the  nursery  where  you  can  be  by  your- 
self.' The  child  continued  to  bawl,"  added  the  young 
man,  "and  much  to  my  amazement  my  sister-in-law 
quietly  took  out  her  watch  and  said :  'I  will  give  you 
just  two  minutes  in  which  to  decide  whether  you  will 
cease  bawling  and  remain  with  us,  or  go  up  to  the 
nursery.'  She  stood  perfectly  still,"  he  continued, 
laughingly,  "holding  her  watch  in  her  hand.  At  the  end 
of  the  two  minutes  she  said :  'Tour  two  minutes  are  up ; 
you  have  made  your  choice,'  and  with  a  slight  wave  of 
her  hand  she  pointed  to  the  door.  The  youngster  de- 
liberately turned  round  and  walked  out  of  the  room  and 
up  the  stairs  towards  the  nursery,  still  bawling.  I 
turned  in  my  astonishment  to  my  sister-in-law  and  said, 
'How  in  the  world  did  you  make  her  do  it?'  She  ans- 
wered, 'My  kindergarten  training  taught  me  to  treat  my 
children  as  rational  beings  with  wills  that  must  be  re- 
spected as  well  as  trained.  I  gave  her  her  choice.  She 
went  upstairs  of  her  own  free  will  to  the  nursery  and 
yet  she  obeyed  the  laws  of  social  consideration.  There- 
fore, because  she  does  not  feel  that  she  has  been  un- 
justly treated,  she  will  the  sooner  conquer  herself  and 
come  back.'  And  sure  enough,  in  less  than  ten  minutes, 
back  came  the  little  miss,  as  sweet  and  gracious  as  if 
nothing  had  happened."  He  had  told  this  story  in  great 
glee,  but  when  ended  his  mood  changed,  and,  in  a  serious 
tone,  he  added,  "If  that  is  the  way  all  American  mothers 
teach  their  children  self-control,  your  republican  gov- 
ernment is  on  a  sure  foundation." 

This  Is  but  a  single  illustration  of  the  law  of 
self -making,  which  the  study  of  Psychology 


8  Foreword. 

reveals  to  us.  This  law  of  self-making  is  as  un- 
erring as  are  the  laws  of  nature.  The  mother 
who  understands  this  law  knows  that  what 
the  child  himself  feels,  does  and  thinks  is 
what  makes  him.  She  therefore  awakens  feel- 
ings which  will  develop  into  sympathy  with  all 
humanity  and  all  nature  and  thus  leads  him  to 
enrich  and  enlarge  his  higher  self.  She  avoids 
awakening  feelings  of  antipathy  which  cause 
the  self-making  of  her  child  to  be  narrow  and 
impoverished.  She  also  leads  him  into  doing 
the  deed  prompted  by  the  right  feeling  and 
thereby  changes  mere  impulse  into  choice, 
well  knowing  that  choosing  lines  of  conduct 
develops  free-will,  or  self-determination, 
which  is  the  basis  of  all  strong  character.  She 
helps  him  to  know  the  true  nature  of  his  deed, 
as  feeling  and  will  may  be  capricious;  but 
thought  rationalizes  the  deed  and  regulates 
feeling.  This  and  much  more  grows  out  of 
the  psychological  view  of  the  child  as  a  self — 
making — self.  This  is  the  meaning  of  "Self- 
Activity"  the  keynote  of  the  new  education. 


SAMMIE'S  PRAYER. 


She  was  a  good  woman — that  aunt  of  his. 
That  is,  she  tried  to  do  her  duty,  and  she  was 
very  fond  of  the  small  three-year-old  nephew 
who  was  the  one  bit  of  sunshine  and  joy  in 
the  sad  home  of  herself  and  her  old  father. 
She  always  kept  the  little  fellow  in  spotlessly 
clean  clothing  and  was  careful  to  see  that  his 
food  was  well  cooked  and  of  the  right  sort. 
Also,  that  he  went  to  bed  early  and  had  plenty 
of  sleep.  But  sometimes  she  was  lacking  in 
that  virtue  beyond  all  other  virtues  in  the 
mothering  of  the  child — far  more  needed  by 
tender  young  souls  that  clean  bodies  and 
wholesome  food  and  abundant  sleep — name- 
ly, the  power  to  understand.  Who  has  not 
erred  in  this  respect? 

Many  were  the  lessons  which  the  child  un- 
consciously taught  her,  for  she  was  a  sen- 
sitive soul  herself,  and  struggled  hard  to  take 
a  mother's  place  in  the  life  of  the  child.  Be- 
ing a  spinster,  she  did  not  know  how  many 
times  even  mothers  err  in  this  same  way  by 
lack  of  sympathetic  perception  of  how  a  child 
may  look  at  a  situation. 

9 


io  Misunderstood  Children. 

One  bright  spring  morning  she  was  hurry- 
ing to  finish  her  sweeping  that  she  might  set 
the  home  in  order  and  get  off  for  some  church 
work  she  had  planned  to  do.  They  were  old- 
fashioned  people  and  their  floors  were  cov- 
ered with  thick  ingrain  carpets  which  yield  up 
a  heap  of  fluff  and  dust,  no  matter  how  often 
they  are  swept.  She  had  just  swept  the  fluff  to 
the  edge  of  the  dustpan  when — swish !  swung 
the  side  door  and  in  rushed  the  young  nephew, 
and  with  him  in  whirled  a  gale  of  wind !  The 
dust  and  fluff  went  swirling  and  dancing  all 
over  the  room.  She  looked  up,  but  did  not 
see  the  glad  light  in  the  boy's  eyes  and  did  not 
hear  the  anticipation  of  sympathy  that  rang  in 
his  joyful  voice  as  he  cried: 

"Oh,  Aunty,  just  come  out  here  and  see  the 
new  flowers  that  have  come  up !  They  are 
going  to  have  a  party,  I  think." 

As  I  said  before,  she  was  in  a  hurry  and 
was  anxious  to  get  through  her  morning  work 
and  to  get  off  on  her  church  errand.  So  she 
only  answered  in  an  annoyed  tone:  "Dear! 
dear!  Sammie !  See  what  you  have  done! 
Go  out  and  shut  that  door !" 

The  boy  looked  disappointed,  but  he  was 
an  obedient  child,  so  he  stepped  out  on  the 


Sammie's  Prayer.  1 1 

side  porch  and  gently  shut  the  door.  Somehow 
the  day  did  not  look  quite  so  bright  with  no 
one  to  share  with  him  his  new  and  rich  dis- 
covery of  unexpected  and,  to  him,  marvelous 
new  blossoms  on  the  primrose  plants.  But  he 
waited  a  long,  long  time  alone  on  the  porch; 
at  least,  it  seemed  to  him  a  long,  long  time. 

She  in  the  meanwhile  hastily  reswept  the 
room  with  never  a  thought  of  the  little  boy 
waiting  outside.  She  merely  added  a  trifle  of 
nervous  haste  to  her  work,  so  as  to  make  up 
for  the  lost  time.  Once  more  she  collected 
the  fluff  and  dust  into  a  pile  and  was  stooping 
to  sweep  it  into  the  dustpan  when  the  door 
cautiously  opened  a  little  and  a  patient  child's 
face  appeared  in  the  space,  with  the  words: 
"Aren't  you  'most  ready  now?"  But  with  the 
opening  of  the  door  in  came  the  spring  breeze 
again.  And  again  off  whirled  and  danced 
the  fluff  and  dust !  She  was  angry  now. 
True,  she  had  not  thought  to  explain  to  him 
why  she  wanted  the  door  kept  shut,  nor  had 
she  assured  him  that  she  would  let  him  know 
when  he  might  open  it,  but  she  did  not  stop 
to  think  of  this.  He  had  disobeyed  her  in- 
tentions. 

He  ought  to  have  understood.  She  would 
2 


12  Misunderstood  Children. 

be  obliged  to  sweep  the  room  all  over  again! 
She  would  be  late  for  her  church  calls! 
The  child's  innocent  eyes  were  looking  up  at 
her.  He  had  become  tired  of  waiting  and  he 
simply  was  asking  if  she  could  not  come  and 
share  his  new  joy.  He  had  never  swept  a 
room,  so  he  had  not  noticed  that  the  dust  had 
been  scattered  by  the  wind.  Just  a  word  of 
explanation  would  have  made  him  go  off  hap- 
pily to  some  new  activity  to  await  her  coming. 
But  no.  She  was  in  a  hurry,  and  that  room 
must  be  swept  all  over  again !  It  was  too  pro- 
voking! With  resentment  tingling  in  her 
tone  she  sharply  exclaimed: 

"Sammie,  go  out  of  this  room  imme- 
diately! And  shut  that  door!  You  are  a 
naughty,  naughty  boy!" 

The  door  closed  with  a  bang  1  A  moment 
more  a  chair  was  overthrown  on  the  porch. 
The  boy  in  his  turn  was  now  angry.  She  bit 
her  lip  and  once  more  began  the  resweeping 
of  the  room.  Bang!  Bang!  went  two  more 
chairs  on  the  porch  floor.  As  I  have  said,  she 
was  a  good  woman  and  she  was  conscientious 
about  the  child.  She  must  not  let  him  give 
way  to  his  temper.  He  must  learn  to  control 
it.    Now  came  a  kick  against  the  door.    This 


Sammie's  Prayer.  13 

was  too  much!  She  could  not  have  him  act 
that  way  toward  her.  It  was  not  treating  her 
with  proper  respect.  She  stopped  sweeping, 
leaned  the  broom  against  a  chair,  and,  going 
to  the  porch  door,  opened  it  and  in  a  tone  of 
angry  command  said:  "Sammie,  you  are  a 
naughty  boy !  Come  with  me  !  I  shall  have 
to  shut  you  up  until  you  can  be  good!"  He 
straightened  himself  up  and  gave  a  kick  at  a 
flower-pot  which  stood  near  by.  (I  have, 
myself,  felt  the  relief  of  overstrained  nerves 
which  came  from  slamming  a  door  or  throw- 
ing a  collar  on  the  floor.     Haven't  you?) 

"There  you  are  again,"  she  cried;  "you 
nearly  knocked  that  flower-pot  off  the  porch ! 
Come  here,  you  naughty  boy !"  She  took  hold 
of  his  hand  and  led  him  into  an  adjoining 
bedroom.  "There!"  she  said,  sternly;  "you 
must  stay  in  this  room  until  you  can  promise 
me  that  you  will  be  a  good  boy.  You  have 
been  very  naughty,  and  Aunty  doesn't  love 
you."  With  that  she  went  out  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her. 

Instantly  the  overwrought  nerves  of  the 
child,  assisted  by  his  wounded  pride  and  vio- 
lated sense  of  justice,  found  vent  in  a  series  of 
screams  accompanied  by  furious  kicking  on 


14  Misunderstood  Children. 

the  door.  With  the  turning  of  the  knob  he 
could  have  opened  it.  But  the  bond  between 
him  and  his  much  loved  aunt  was  still  strong 
enough  for  her  word  to  mean  law  to  him.  The 
kicking  and  screaming  soon  subsided  into 
long,  heartbreaking  sobs.  And  in  justice  to 
her  I  must  say  that  the  aunt  outside  the  door 
was  as  unhappy  as  the  sobbing  boy  inside  the 
bedroom.  But  she  went  on  sweeping  with  a 
flushed  face  and  painfully  compressed  lips. 
Now  that  she  was  "in  for  it"  she  must  "stick 
it  out,"  she  said  to  herself.  The  boy's  temper 
must  be  conquered.  All  thoughts  of  the 
church  errand  were  banished  now.  She  was 
a  good  woman  and  she  knew  that  bringing 
the  child  back  to  a  harmonious  relation  with 
herself  was  the  paramount  duty  of  that  morn- 
ing. All  things  else  were  as  naught  compared 
with  that. 

Soon  the  deep,  heavy  sobs  ceased,  and  her 
tenderly  alert  ear  could  hear  the  catching  of 
the  breath  that  comes  after  a  passionate  out- 
burst. She  hoped  he  would  promise  to  be 
good,  for  she  had  told  him  that  he  would 
have  to  stay  imprisoned  until  he  was  ready  to 
make  a  promise  to  do  better.  How  could  she 
take  the  cessation  of  sobs  for  repentance? 


Sammie's  Prayer.  15 

He  must  say  he  would  be  good.  So  she 
nervously  dusted  and  set  in  order  the  room, 
lingering  now  here  and  now  there,  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  open  the  door  as  soon  as  the  boy 
should  confess  his  naughtiness.  Her  heart 
was  aching  now  and  it  was  hard  work  to  keep 
back  the  tears.  What  would  a  real  mother 
do?  Would  his  own  mother  have  punished 
him  so?  A  choking  lump  came  into  her 
throat ;  still,  she  could  not  allow  him  to  fly  into 
such  tempests.  He  must  learn  to  control  him- 
self. And  so  reasoning  the  pros  and  cons  of 
the  case,  with  her  heart  all  the  time  crying  out 
for  the  boy,  she  loitered  in  the  room. 

At  last  a  weak,  tired  little  voice  with  the 
sobs  still  echoing  in  it  called  through  the 
door:  "I  will  be  good,  Aunty," — a  sob — "I 
will  be  good."  A  sob — but  stifled  now.  In- 
stantly the  door  was  opened  and  in  a  moment 
more  the  child  was  nestling  in  his  foster 
mother's  arms.  And  she  was  whispering  in 
his  ear:  "Aunty  is  so  glad  to  have  her  boy 
back  again.  She  was  so  sorry  to  have  to  pun- 
ish him."  The  child  made  no  reply,  but  clung 
closer  to  her;  his  lip  still  trembled;  the  sobs, 
coming  now  and  then  as  she  rocked  him  to 
and  fro,  grew  fainter  and  fainter;  the  loving 


1 6  Misunderstood  Children. 

arms  that  were  clasped  around  her  neck 
gently  relaxed  their  hold,  and  soon  the  quiet, 
peaceful  breathing  told  that  the  child,  ex- 
hausted by  his  emotions,  was  asleep.  Nature 
had  come  to  his  rescue  and  was  undoing  the 
mischief  done  by  the  poisoning  of  his  blood 
with  the  violent  excitement  of  the  previous 
hour.  Gently  the  aunt  laid  the  limp  little 
body  on  a  cot,  and,  bending  over  him,  she  ten- 
derly kissed  the  tear-stained  face.  For,  as  I 
have  said  before,  she  was  a  good  woman  and 
she  dearly  loved  the  child. 

When  he  awoke  an  hour  afterward,  re- 
freshed and  renewed  by  his  nap,  all  traces  of 
the  storm  had  passed  away,  and  the  two  spent 
a  happy  day  together. 

That  evening  when  the  little  white-robed 
form,  kneeling  before  her  with  his  face  bur- 
ied in  her  lap,  had  finished  his  "Now  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,"  she  leaned  over  and  said: 
"Doesn't  my  little  boy  want  to  ask  God  to 
help  him  to  keep   from  being  naughty  any 

-in 

more  r 

The  small  head  bowed  a  little  lower.  The 
child's  body  trembled  slightly,  but  he  re- 
mained silent. 


Sammie's  Prayer.  17 

The  aunt  waited.  She  must  help  him  to  con- 
fess his  sin.  He  had  acted  wrongly  and  he 
must  ask  God  to  forgive  him.  This  would 
help  to  impress  the  lesson  on  him. 

Blind  soul!  She  knew  not  what  she  was 
doing!  She  waited.  Still  the  little  figure 
kneeled  before  her,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands  and  buried  on  her  lap.  She  gently  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  head,  and,  bending  lower, 
whispered:  "Can't  my  darling  ask  God  to 
help  him  to  be  a  good  boy?" 

Again  a  tremor  passed  over  him.  Then 
in  a  low,  timid  voice  he  said:  "Please  God, 
make  Sammie  to  be  a  good  boy."  Then,  as  if 
the  flood  of  recollection  of  the  morning  were 
too  much  for  him,  he  added  in  a  tone  that 
rang  with  the  intensity  of  his  petition  :  "And, 
O  God,  please  don't  let  Aunt  Betty  speak  that 
way  to  me  any  more !" 

The  scales  fell  from  her  eyes.  And  with 
the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks  she 
picked  him  up,  and  as  she  kissed  him  again 
and  again  she  told  him  that  she  would  ask 
God  that  night  to  help  her  to  be  hereafter  a 
good  aunt  and  to  refrain  from  ever  speaking 
crossly  to  him  again. 

Do  you  wonder,  my  reader,  that  alone  in 


1 8  Misunderstood  Children. 

my  room  that  night  I  prayed:  "O  God,  O 
God,  help  me  never  again  to  cause  one  of  Thy 
little  ones  to  stumble  and  fall?" 


THE  BOY  WHO  HATED  SCHOOL. 


"Oh!  Mamma!  Do  I  have  to  go  to  school 
this  afternoon."  The  words  were  uttered  in 
such  a  tone  of  desperation  that  I  looked  up 
quickly  from  my  book  to  the  tall  overgrown 
boy  of  eleven  who  stood  nervously  twisting 
his  cap  in  his  hands  while  he  shifted  awk- 
wardly from  one  foot  to  the  other.  The 
length  of  his  arms  and  legs  in  proportion  to 
the  rest  of  his  body  told  my  practiced  eyes 
that  the  surge  within  preparatory  to  the  com- 
ing manhood  had  already  begun.  Nature  was 
putting  forth  her  utmost  effort  to  increase  the 
boy's  height  before  the  final  miracle  of  adoles- 
cence should  demand  all  his  vitality.  Almost 
every  atom  of  his  strength  was  being  used  in 
this  rapid  physical  growth. 

His  mother  looked  puzzled  and  somewhat 
perplexed  as  she  replied,  "Of  course  you  must 
go  to  school,  my  son.  You  are  not  ill,  are 
you?"  "No,"  answered  the  boy  with  a  sigh. 
"Wish  I  was  sick!"  Then  he  burst  out  with 
"I  hate  school !  I  wish  I  never  had  to  go  to 
school  another  day!"     The  mother  rose  and 

19 


20  Misunderstood  Children. 

going  over  to  where  he  stood  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  his  brow.  The  expression  of 
anxiety  left  her  face.  "You  have  no  fever. 
Why  don't  you  want  to  go  to  school?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  know!"  answered  the  boy, 
and  he  twisted  himself  away  from  her  caress- 
ing hand.  Already  the  fast  approaching  man- 
hood within  him  was  rejecting  the  caress 
which  his  childhood  had  loved.  Then  he 
added  in  an  undertone,  "I  hate  school  and  I 
hate  my  teacher !"  "Well,  we  won't  talk  any 
more  about  it,"  said  his  mother.  "Your  chief 
duty  in  life  just  now  is  to  go  to  school.  I  am 
sorry  you  do  not  like  it.  But  you  must  learn 
to  do  your  duty  whether  you  like  it  or  not. 
So  run  along  now,  else  you  will  be  late." 

The  boy  drew  his  cap  down  on  his  head 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  turned  to 
leave  the  room.  As  he  did  so  a  wave  of  an- 
guish swept  over  his  face.  In  a  moment  more 
he  had  slammed  the  front  door  and  was  on  his 
way  to  the  dreaded  schoolroom.  "I  don't 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  Roger,"  said 
the  mother,  turning  to  me.  "He  is  such  a 
good-natured  boy  usually.  I  never  heard  him 
speak  so  before.  Something  must  be  going 
wrong  with  him." 


The  Boy  Who  Hated  School.         21 

"Perhaps  the  something  wrong  is  with  the 
teacher,"  I  suggested,  for  I  knew  the  shy, 
sensitive  boy  well  and  dearly  loved  him.  The 
mother  still  looked  perplexed  and  walked  in- 
stinctively to  the  window  as  if  to  get  a  solu- 
tion of  the  trouble  by  watching  the  fast  re- 
ceding form  of  her  son. 

We  were  silent.  Then  I  said,  "I  have  noth- 
ing special  to  do  this  afternoon.  How  would 
it  do  for  me  to  go  up  to  the  school  and  look 
over  the  ground?"  "I  wish  you  would,"  she 
replied.  "I  would  go  with  you  if  I  did  not 
have  an  important  engagement  for  the  after- 
noon." 

Inside  of  half  an  hour  I  opened  the  school- 
room door.  Being  an  entire  stranger  to  the 
teacher,  I  merely  nodded  and  sat  down  in  the 
visitor's  chair.  My  boy  friend  blushed,  looked 
uncomfortable  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  the 
page  of  his  open  book.  He  was,  as  I  have 
said,  a  shy,  sensitive  boy,  and  I  surmised  that 
he  feared  my  visit  might  in  some  way  make 
him  conspicuous.  But  I  was  on  my  guard  and 
merely  glanced  at  him  as  I  did  at  the  rest  of 
the  fifty  children  who  were  crowded  into  the 
hot,  ill-ventilated  room.  The  class  which  was 
reciting  resumed  its  work.     The  lesson  was 


22  Misunderstood  Children. 

finished  and  the  pupils  were  sent  to  their  seats 
to  copy  something  from  the  blackboard. 
Then  a  lesson  in  oral  spelling  was  begun  with 
the  class  to  which  my  boy  belonged.  The 
color  came  and  went  in  his  delicate  face.  I 
knew  a  trial  was  coming  and  that  it  would  be 
all  the  harder  because  I  was  there.  I  tried  to 
smile  encouragingly  for  a  moment  and  then  to 
look  in  another  direction.  My  hasty  glance 
toward  him,  however,  showed  me  that  the  boy 
was  half  sick  with  dread.  The  teacher  was  a 
bright,  wide-awake  young  woman  with  lots  of 
"go"  in  her.  In  a  quick,  alert  voice  she  said, 
"Come  now !  All  books  put  away.  We'll  see 
who  can  remember  yesterday's  lesson!  Let's 
be  quick!"  and  she  began  giving  out  some 
words  from  a  slip  of  paper  which  she  held  in 
her  hand.  Each  child  rose  promptly  and  stood 
beside  his  desk  as  he  spelled  the  word  given 
him.  The  work  progressed  briskly  until  it 
came  to  my  boy. 

The  next  word  on  her  list  was  pronounced 
quickly  by  the  teacher.  Roger  looked  at  her, 
turned  red  in  the  face,  then  slowly  disentan- 
gling his  long  legs  from  the  iron  rod  under  the 
seat,  he  managed  to  get  into  the  aisle  holding 
tenaciously  to  his  desk  with  the  grip  of  a 


The  Boy  Who  Hated  School.         23 

drowning  man,  and,  covered  with  confusion, 
spelled  the  word. 

"Well!  children!  Look  at  Roger!  He  has 
actually  found  that  there  are  some  feet  at  the 
end  of  his  legs!  He  is  standing  on  them! 
Really,  Roger,  I  congratulate  you,  that  you 
didn't  try  to  spell  sitting  down  to-day!"  The 
other  boys  grinned.  The  little  girls  tittered. 
And  Roger — poor  Roger — stung  by  her 
thoughtless  sarcasm  and  realizing  that  he  was 
an  object  of  ridicule  to  his  comrades,  dropped 
into  his  seat  utterly  wretched.  There  was  no 
more  concentrating  for  work  that  afternoon. 
He  paid  no  further  attention  to  what  was 
going  on,  but  looked  hopelessly  out  of  the 
window  as  a  prisoner  might  have  looked 
through  the  iron  bars  of  his  cell.  When  it 
was  again  his  turn  to  spell  he  merely  shook 
his  head  and  the  word  was  passed  on  to  the 
next  child.  The  lesson  ended,  the  class  was 
told  to  take  out  its  drawing  material  and  com- 
plete the  sketch  begun  the  day  before.  Roger 
was  passionately  fond  of  drawing,  and  was  at 
work  with  his  pencil  half  his  time  at  home, 
but  his  hand  moved  listlessly  over  the  paper 
now.  Occasionally  it  stopped  entirely.  He 
was  so  unhappy  that  he  could  not  work,  even 


24  Misunderstood  Children. 

at  his  beloved  sketching.  Several  times  he 
looked  up  longingly  at  the  clock  to  see  if  his 
torture  for  that  day  was  not  over.  Once  or 
twice  he  chanced  to  meet  the  eye  of  some 
other  child.  Each  time  he  blushed  furiously 
and  a  flash  of  pain  darted  over  his  face.  Once 
or  twice  he  wiped  his  brow  in  a  weary,  dis- 
couraged way.  The  brisk  young  teacher, 
apparently  blind  to  the  boy's  condition, 
walked  up  this  aisle  and  down  that,  speaking 
cheerily,  and  in  that  pleasant  tone  of  voice 
which  young  teachers  think  they  must  use. 

Once  or  twice  she  tried  to  converse  with 
me.  But  I  answered  in  monosyllables.  I,  too, 
was  watching  the  slow-crawling  hand  of  that 
old  clock.  Why  wouldn't  it  mark  half-past 
three,  so  that  my  boy  could  go  and  I  could 
free  my  mind?  I  knew  she  was  young.  I 
knew  she  was  inexperienced.  I  knew  she  did 
not  realize  what  she  had  done.  Had  she 
struck  Roger  in  the  presence  of  all  the  chil- 
dren I  could  have  forgiven  her  more  easily. 
I  understand  now  what  George  Eliot  meant 
when  she  said,  "Blows  are  but  sarcasms 
turned  stupid."  My  dear,  sensitive,  shy 
Roger !  Every  inch  of  him  a  gentleman !  No 
wonder  that  he  hated  her  and  hated  his  school 
life.     I  almost  hated  her  myself. 


The  Boy  Who  Hated  School.         25 

I  recalled  Froebel's  words,  "Ask  every 
true  school-child  with  what  feeling  he  ap- 
proached the  schoolhouse,  and  still  more  with 
what  feeling  he  entered  it;  how  he  felt  more 
or  less  keenly  each  day  as  if  he  had  entered 
into  a  higher  spiritual  world — the  faith  and 
trust  with  which  the  child  enters  school  ac- 
complishes everything."  Then  I  found  my 
wrath  beginning  to  change  into  pity  for  the 
young  teacher  who  had  not  yet  learned  that 
her  vocation  was  one  of  the  divinest  on  earth ; 
who  still  thought  that  keeping  order,  and 
teaching  text-books  were  her  chief  duties! 
Poor  thing!  She  was  in  the  midst  of  a  soul- 
garden  and  did  not  know  it!  Life  was  offer- 
ing her  some  of  its  richest,  rarest  joys,  its 
greatest  opportunities,  and  she  saw  them  not ! 
Therefore,  by  the  time  school  session  had 
come  to  its  close  I  was  in  a  softened  mood  to- 
ward her.  I  nodded  to  Roger  to  go  on  home 
without  me.     I  wanted  to  talk  to  her. 

When  we  were  alone,  she  moved  about 
cheerfully  picking  up  the  debris  which  a  day's 
work  inevitably  leaves  behind  it.  Soon  she 
said,  "Are  you  interested  in  any  of  the  chil- 
dren here."  "I  am  interested  in  all  children," 
I  replied.    "Are  you  a  teacher?"    She  asked. 


7.6  Misunderstood  Children. 

(At  least  she  recognized  that  this  is  the  senti- 
ment which  a  teacher  should  express.)  "Yes," 
I  answered,  "I  have  taught  twenty  years.  It 
is  a  glorious  work,  isn't  it?  It  grows  more 
glorious  each  year,  doesn't  it?"  I  purposely 
spoke  as  I  did.  I  wanted  to  awaken  her. 
She  looked  at  me  a  little  curiously,  and  then 
said,  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  get 
very  tired."  I  liked  her  frankness.  It  rang 
true.  I  at  least  would  not  have  wounded 
vanity  and  deceit  to  deal  with. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  replied.  "We  all  get  tired 
sometimes.  You  were  tired  to-day."  Her 
eyes  opened  with  alarm.  "How  did  you  know 
that?"  she  exclaimed,  then  added  anxiously, 
"Did  my  work  show  fatigue?"  "No,"  I  an- 
swered, rising  instinctively  and  going  close 
enough  to  take  one  of  her  hands  in  mine. 
"Your  face  shows  me  that  you  have  a  best 
self,  and  I  knew  you  could  not  be  your  best 
self  when  you  needlessly  caused  a  child  to  suf- 
fer acute  anguish!"  "What  do  you  mean?" 
she  cried.  Then  we  sat  down  together  and  I 
told  her  of  the  scene  in  Roger's  home,  of  the 
cause  of  my  visit,  and  of  the  suffering  which 
her  thoughtless  words  had  brought  to  a  deli- 
cate, sensitive,  misunderstood  child.     Before 


The  Boy  Who  Hated  School.  27 

we  had  finished  the  tears  were  rolling  down 
her  cheeks;  and  both  her  hands  were  holding 
mine  as  she  said,  "Oh,  I  thank  you,  I  thank 
you  so  much  for  telling  me  all  this.  I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  the  boy.  I  do  want  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  all  my  children !  Oh,  I  shall 
never  again  call  a  child  stupid.  How  could  I 
have  been  so  blind!  So  cruel!"  I  saw  that 
she  had  the  right  kind  of  stuff  in  her,  and, 
with  a  few  words  of  encouragement,  I  left.  A 
week  or  two  after  that  I  called  at  the  school 
again,  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
young  teacher's  face  had  taken  on  some  new 
and  beautiful  lines.  Anyhow,  Roger  looked 
up  with  a  pleased  smile,  and  I  thought,  "One 
less  unhappy  child  in  the  world,  thank  God!" 


LITTLE  MARY. 


It  happened  in  broad  daylight,  in  a  city 
park,  with  scores  of  people  passing  to  and 
fro — yet  only  I  and  the  one  little  child  knew 
what  took  place.  There  were  three  women  in 
the  group  and  about  ten  or  twelve  children. 
The  latter  varied  in  age  from  two  boys  of 
twelve  or  thirteen  on  down,  through  several 
girls  of  nine  and  ten  and  boys  of  six  and  eight, 
to  one  wee  four-year-old  girl.  Their  baskets 
and  boxes  and  glass  jars  filled  with  potato 
salad,  milk,  cold  coffee  and  like  delectables 
told  the  casual  observer  that  they  were  out 
for  a  picnic  supper  in  the  park,  while  the  sym- 
pathetic observer  knew  that  here  were  three 
mothers  wise  enough  to  plan  for  and  share  in 
their  children's  holiday  larks.  One  knew  from 
the  joy  on  the  children's  faces  that  there  had 
been  elaborate  planning  of  the  day,  and  the 
glee  of  packing  the  baskets,  and  distributing 
the  parcels,  and  deciding  who  was  careful 
enough  to  be  trusted  with  the  jar  of  milk,  and 
who  should  carry  the  tin  coffee-pot  (the  choic- 
est and  most  honorable  part  of  the  outfit,  as 
could  easily  be  seen  from  the  air  of  impor- 

28 


Little  Mary.  29 

tance  of  the  boy  who  triumphantly  swung  it 
along).  There  would  be  revenous  appetites 
by  six  o'clock,  so  there  was  a  goodly  supply  of 
baskets,  pails,  boxes,  etc.  They  had  seated 
themselves  on  the  steps  of  the  Museum  to 
rest  a  bit  when  the  child  tragedy  I  am  about 
to  describe  took  place. 

It  was  the  little  four-year-old  girl  who  was 
the  heroine  of  this  every-day  drama  of  mis- 
understood childhood.  Her  older  brother  had 
seated  himself  on  the  steps  above  the  rest  of 
the  group.  He  was  the  one  hero  in  all  the 
world  to  her,  most  to  be  admired  and  imi- 
tated. She  was  seated  next  to  her  mother,  but 
her  eyes  traveled  longingly  up  to  the  more  ex- 
alted seat  occupied  by  her  big  brother.  Her 
mother's  attention  was  obscured  by  some  con- 
versation with  one  of  the  other  women.  The 
child  looked  longingly  up  to  where  her 
brother  was  exultingly  tossing  his  arms  to  and 
fro  in  the  mad  ecstacy  of  freedom.  Then  she 
looked  at  her  mother  and  began:  "Mamma, 
Mamma,  Mamma,  I'm  going  up  to  where 
Brother  is." 

The  mother  paid  no  attention  to  the  utter- 
ance of  aspiration  on  the  part  of  her  daugh- 
ter, although  each  time  that  the  word  "Mam- 


30  Misunderstood  Children. 

ma"  was  drawled  out  it  was  accompanied  by  a 
yanking  of  the  mother's  dress.  There  was  a 
pause  on  the  part  of  the  child,  indicating,  if  I 
read  her  face  aright,  a  few  moments  of  inde- 
cision. Should  she  obey  the  law,  or  should 
she  assert  her  freedom? 

Then  the  brother  from  the  vantage  ground 
above  began  kicking  his  legs  out  into  the  air 
in  added  token  of  the  delights  of  superior 
freedom.  This  was  too  much;  the  four-year- 
old  prisoner  began  pulling  again  at  the  invis- 
ible ball  and  chain  that  held  her  to  her 
mother's  side,  and  again  came  the  drawling 
protest,  now  a  little  fretful:  "Mamma,  Mam- 
ma, Mamma,  I'm  going  up  where  Brother  is." 

This  time  the  mother  turned  her  head  long 
enough  to  say:  "No,  sit  still,"  and  then  she 
turned  again  to  the  interesting  conversation 
with  her  neighbors. 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
then  there  slowly  crept  over  her  face  a  look  of 
determination.  The  battle  between  liberty  and 
authority  had  been  fought  and  personal  free- 
dom had  won.  No  matter  what  the  risk  might 
be,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  find  out  how  it  felt  to  sit  away  high  up, 
above  all  the  people,  and  to  toss  out  her  arms 


Little  Mary.  31 

and  kick  out  her  legs  just  as  Brother  was 
doing.  She  knew  it  was  wrong,  dreadfully 
wrong.  Her  look  of  fear  as  she  glanced  up 
toward  her  mother's  face  showed  that,  but 
an  exultant  shout  from  Brother  above  ban- 
ished all  doubt  as  to  the  desirability  of  the 
deed  she  was  contemplating.  The  one  remain- 
ing question  was  how  to  do  it. 

She  began  slowly  and  softly  edging  away 
from  her  mother,  while  her  face  flushed  guilt- 
ily. Her  eyes  never  once  left  their  furtive 
watch  of  her  mother,  and  it  was  well  for  the 
success  of  her  plans  that  she  was  on  her  guard 
for  she  had  not  slipped  more  than  three  inches 
away  before  the  mother's  hand  reached  out  to 
her  and  caught  hold  of  her  dress,  while  the 
mother's  voice  said :  "Sit  still,  Mary !"  though 
she  did  not  turn  her  head  toward  the  child. 
She  was  talking  with  her  friend,  and  did  not 
wish  to  be  interrupted,  but  the  autocratic  man- 
ner in  which  she  reached  out  her  hand  and 
physically  restrained  the  restless  little  one,  as 
well  as  the  mechanical  way  in  which  she  said: 
"Sit  still,  Mary,"  spoke  volumes  to  me  of  past 
restraints  and  disregard  of  childish  longings. 
It  told  me  that  a  hundred  times  before  she 
had  said:  "No,  sit  still,   Mary,"   and  little 


32  Misunderstood  Children. 

Mary's  conduct  proved  that  she  understood 
the  situation,  and  had  many  a  time  before 
won  her  own  way  by  strategy  when  she  could 
not  win  it  by  fair  play. 

She  sat  motionless  until  the  mother's  hand 
relaxed  its  hold  on  her  dress.  But  no  cat  ever 
watched  more  intently  the  hole  in  the  floor 
from  which  the  rat  was  expected  to  emerge 
than  Mary  watched  for  the  relaxing  of  the 
mother's  hold.  It  came  in  a  few  minutes,  as 
the  child  knew  it  would  come.  Then  she 
quietly  slipped  the  folds  of  her  skirt  from  the 
forgetting  fingers  and  edged  another  inch 
away.  The  guilty  look  on  her  face  showed 
that  she  had  now  consciously  begun  her  down- 
ward career  of  disobedience  to  authority.  She 
did  not  now  look  at  Brother — her  whole  mind 
was  absorbed  in  escaping  from  her  mother, 
or,  to  put  it  a  little  more  comprehensively,  es- 
caping from  an  intolerable  condition  of  bond- 
age. She  paused,  then  came  another  inch  of 
space  between  her  and  her  mother,  and  an 
equal  widening  of  the  breach  of  that  inner 
world  which  cannot  be  measured  by  inches; 
for  an  expression  of  defiance  now  began  to 
show  itself.  She  had  dared  to  resist  authority; 
now  she  was  losing  her  respect  for  it.     The 


Little  Mary.  33 

space  soon  widened  into  a  foot  or  more.  Still 
she  unconsciously  held  on  to  the  edge  of  the 
step.  The  child  waited  a  few  seconds,  then 
silently  and  slyly  placed  her  hands  on  the  step 
above  and  lifted  her  body  up  to  it  without 
actually  rising  to  her  feet.  A  flash  of  triumph 
on  her  face  showed  that  she  had  discovered 
the  right  method  of  escape.  She  looked  quick- 
ly around  to  the  right  and  left  to  be  sure  that 
nobody  was  watching  her.  Then  by  the  same 
subtle  movement  she  lifted  herself  to  the  next 
step.  All  this  was  done  silently,  with  many 
furtive  glances  at  the  mother,  yet  with  an  air 
of  exultant,  almost  revengeful,  triumph  which 
told  the  student  of  child-life  that  her  con- 
science was  crying  out:  "It's  wrong,  it's 
wrong,  it's  wrong,"  while  every  other  atom  of 
her  being  was  answering:  "I  don't  care;  I'm 
going  to  do  it."  She  soon  reached  the  longed- 
for  place  of  exaltation.  She  was  now  on  the 
same  step  with  her  brother,  but  about  ten  feet 
away  from  where  he  sat.  He  was  looking 
the  other  way.  The  mother  was  still  uncon- 
scious of  her  daughter's  rebellion  and  escape. 
The  other  children  were  occupied  in  various 
ways.  She  had  not  been  missed  by  any  of 
them. 


34  Misunderstood  Children. 

The  loneliness  of  her  new  position  suddenly 
overcame  her  (as  it  has  many  older  sisters  of 
her  race  who  have  defied  the  family  authority 
and  insisted  in  climbing  as  high  as  their  broth- 
ers had  climbed) .  The  daring  was  gone  now. 
The  gleam  of  defiance  faded  out  of  her  face. 
She  coyly  slid  along  until  she  was  near  enough 
to  her  brother  to  nestle  down  close  beside  him. 
Then  her  whole  attitude  changed;  she  at  once 
became  distinctly  feminine,  the  old-fashioned 
feminine  at  that.  She  caressingly  put  her  lit- 
tle hand  coaxingly  against  her  brother's 
cheek.  No  word  could  have  said  more  plain- 
ly: "I  am  cold  and  lonely.  Brother,  dear, 
open  your  arms  and  give  me  shelter."  But 
what  did  the  brother  do  ?  He  instantly  joined 
the  vast  army  of  misunderstanders  and  rudely 
pushed  her  away.  He  then  rose  in  his  manly 
dignity  and  appealed  to  the  only  court  of  law 
that  either  of  them  knew  anything  about.  He 
shouted  out:  "Mamma,  Mary  has  come  up 
here!" 

The  child's  lip  trembled,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  had  so  hoped  he  would  ap- 
preciate her  hard-won  battle  and  take  her  in 
as  sharer  of  his  freedom.  It  was  a  moment  of 
despair. 


Little  Mary.         •*  35 

Then  the  shout  was  repeated:  "Mamma, 
Mary  has  come  up  here." 

This  time  it  had  an  indignant  ring  in  it,  and 
the  mother  turned  her  head.  "Mary,"  she 
called,  "come  here  this  minute  !" 

Mary  rose,  turned  her  back  and  rapidly 
mounted  to  the  topmost  step.  The  fight  was 
on  now,  and  she  might  as  well  go  as  far  as 
possible.  She  was  a  fugitive  fleeing  from 
justice.  The  mother  rose  angrily  and  started 
up  the  steps.  The  child  gave  one  look  back 
over  her  shoulder  and  fled  through  the  open 
door  of  the  Museum,  into  the  arms  of  a  big, 
gruff-voiced  man  in  blue  uniform  and  brass 
buttons.  Polyphemus  embodied  no  more  the 
brute  force  of  a  giant  to  poor  Ulysses  crouch- 
ing in  the  darkened  cave  than  did  this  rough, 
unknown  shape  terrify  the  frightened  child. 
She  was  altogether  too  much  excited  to  detect 
the  kindly  humor  under  his  loud  words : 
"Here  !  here  !  You  little  runaway !  What 
are  you  doing  in  here !"  He  grabbed  her  up 
and  brought  her  back  to  her  mother,  who  had 
now  reached  the  top  step,  panting  and  out  of 
breath. 

The  child's  face  was  pale  with  fright.  No 
words  escaped  her  lips,  but  she  looked  plead- 


36  Misunderstood  Children. 

ingly,  helplessly  up  into  her  mother's  face. 
The  hour  of  repentance  and  reconciliation 
had  come.  The  awful  escape  from  that  dark 
room  and  the  terrible  giant  had  quenched  the 
last  flickering  flame  of  independence.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  a  heart  of  stone  would 
have  felt  the  child's  anguish.  But  the  mother 
was  angry.  Besides,  the  neighbors  had  wit- 
nessed it  all.  What  could  be  harder  to  bear? 
She  saw  not  the  white  face  turned  mutely  to- 
ward her,  nor  did  she  notice  the  trembling  of 
the  little  body,  terrified  with  fright.  She 
seized  the  child  by  one  arm,  and,  giving  her  a 
hard  shaking,  she  dragged  her  down  the  stone 
steps,  adding  to  the  humiliation  of  the  scene 
by  saying  loud  enough  for  whoever  would  to 
hear :  "You  are  a  bad,  naughty  girl !  I  wish  I 
had  left  you  at  home !  You  shall  not  come 
with  us  to  the  park  any  more."  Yet  she  was 
apparently  a  good  woman,  with  a  kindly  ex- 
pression of  face  in  general — but  how  could 
she  stand  having  her  neighbors  see  her  four- 
year-old  child  defy  her? 

In  the  meantime  the  scene  had  focused 
upon  the  culprit  the  eyes  of  the  entire  world 
(the  people  on  the  steps  were  the  entire  world 
to  the  child  just  at  that  moment).    Then,  to 


Little  Mary.  37 

add  to  her  torture,  the  little  brother,  whom 
five  minutes  before  she  had  fondly  tried 
to  caress,  now  openly  jeered  at  her,  and  the 
other  children  tittered!  The  sensitive  face 
hardened.  If  she  were  denounced  by  her  own 
family  as  a  criminal  she  would  be  a  criminal. 
By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  picnic  group 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps  she  was  sullen  and 
silent.  So  when  her  mother  picked  her  up 
and  sat  her  down,  somewhat  emphatically,  in 
the  very  spot  from  which  she  had  made  the 
escape,  not  a  muscle  in  her  face  moved.  She 
might  have  been  made  of  wood  or  stone,  so 
entirely  devoid  was  she  of  any  trace  of  emo- 
tion. 

"There,  now,  you  sit  there !"  commanded 
the  mother  as  she  smoothed  down  her  dress — 
a  gesture  which  I  have  observed  when  women 
are  smoothing  down  their  tempers.  Then, 
turning  to  the  women,  she  took  up  again 
the  interesting  conversation  which  had  been 
interrupted. 

The  child  sat  motionless  for  a  short  time. 
Then  she  deliberately  rose,  her  small  body 
involuntarily  straightened  itself  to  its  full 
height,  her  lips  pressed  together,  and  her 
hands  doubled  into  small,  defiant  fists.  She  no 


38  Misunderstood  Children 

longer  looked  at  her  mother  or,  for  that  mat- 
ter, at  any  one  else.  She  had  been  publicly  dis- 
graced— what  cared  she  for  public  opinion 
now?  Carrying  her  body  as  a  daughter  of 
the  Pharaohs  might  have  borne  herself,  she 
deliberately  ascended  the  steps  to  the  very 
top  without  once  looking  around.  Reaching 
once  more  the  topmost  step,  she  relaxed  some- 
what and  stood  there  as  if  expecting  some 
awful  doom. 

The  mother  was  seemingly  unconscious  of 
her  absence,  but  the  lynx-eyed  brother  bawled 
out:  "Mamma,  Mary  has  gone  up  to  the  top 
again."  The  mother  gave  no  heed,  but  the 
child  at  the  top  of  the  steps  did.  Casting  one 
look  of  scorn  upon  the  tale-bearer,  she 
walked  across  the  broad  landing  and  out  on 
to  the  high  parapet  which  rose  perpendicu- 
larly twelve  feet  above  the  ground.  At  this 
the  brother  fairly  shrieked  to  his  mother: 
"Mamma,  Mamma,  look  at  Mary!" 

All  eyes  turned  once  more  upon  the  child, 
who  stood  boldly  outlined  against  the  blue 
sky.  When  she  saw  that  she  had  gained  the 
attention  of  her  scornful  public  she  deliber- 
ately stood  on  one  leg  and  hopped  up  and 
down,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  edge 


Little  Mary.  39 

of  the  parapet.  She  was  openly  defying  that 
public  in  reckless  disregard  of  what  the  conse- 
quence might  be  to  her.  Ah !  how  many  out- 
cast sisters  had  done  the  same  before.  The 
mother,  with  a  cry  of  real  alarm,  sprang  up 
the  steps  and  rushed  out  onto  the  parapet. 

There  was  no  mute  appeal  on  the  child's 
face  now.  She  had  shown  her  disregard  of 
both  public  and  family  condemnation,  and  was 
willing  to  take  the  consequences.  She  stood 
calmly  awaiting  arrest,  her  eyes  twinkling 
with  satisfaction  over  the  disturbance  she  had 
created.  So  when  the  mother  again  shook 
her  and  called  her  a  troublesome,  naughty  girl 
she  merely  laughed  a  hard  little  laugh,  and  let 
herself  be  once  more  dragged  down  the  steps. 
At  this  juncture  one  of  the  women  proposed 
that  the  party  should  move  on.  Baskets  and 
boxes,  hats  and  wraps  were  gathered  up  and 
the  group  passed  out  of  sight,  the  first  mother 
holding  the  four-year-old  firmly  by  the  hand. 

But  the  child's  face  did  not  change  its  look 
of  defiant  amusement. 

And  so  we  go  on,  making  and  marring  the 
"God-image"  in  the  young  children  intrusted 
to  our  care. 


THE  TWINS. 


"No,  I  never  allow  fairy  tales  to  be  read  to 
my  children.  I  do  not  believe  in  such  non- 
sense. There  are  plenty  of  common-sense 
facts  to  be  taught  children.  There  is  no  need 
whatever  of  wasting  their  time  on  imaginary 
things.    I  simply  will  not  allow  it." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  an  icy 
precision  as  she  drew  her  handsome  wrap 
a  trifle  closer  around  well-shaped  shoul- 
ders and  settled  herself  back  in  her  chair  on 
the  hotel  veranda.  It  was  evidently  the  case 
of  an  immovable  conviction  against  which  an 
irresistible  argument  could  battle  forever  in 
vain.  I  looked  from  the  cold  face  of  this  ele- 
gantly attired,  self-satisfied  woman  to  the  col- 
orless but  very  proper  twins  who  sat  on  the 
hotel  veranda  steps  instead  of  on  chairs,  while 
they  watched  the  other  children  dig  in  the 
sand  or  sail  mimic  boats  or  run  up  and  down 
the  beach,  bare-headed  and  bare-legged, 
shouting  for  the  sheer  joy  of  shouting. 

I  had  watched  the  life  of  the  twins  every 
day  for  a  week.    They  came  into  the  dining 

40 


The  Twins.  41 

room,  always  walking  demurely  beside  their 
English  governess,  who  was  just  a  little  prim- 
mer and  stiffer  than  they.  She  was  forty  and 
they  were  but  ten  years  old.  Their  flaxen 
hair  was  always  parted  and  scrupulously 
brushed  flat  to  their  heads  and  plaited  in  two 
stiff,  hard,  little  plaits,  tied  with  narrow  black 
ribbon.  Their  blue  gingham  dresses  were 
made  from  the  same  pattern  and  as  simply  as 
was  possible,  and  always  starched  and  clean, 
painfully  clean.  Even  their  heavy,  heelless 
shoes  were  exactly  alike.  When  they  stood 
with  their  backs  to  you  it  was  impossible  to 
tell  which  was  Anna  and  which  was  Harriet. 
When  you  viewed  their  profiles  you  discovered 
that  Anna's  nose  was  somewhat  sharper  than 
that  of  her  sister.  They  had  been  trained  to 
speak  with  exceeding  correctness  and  their 
voices  were  as  lifeless  as  are  the  mechanical 
voices  one  hears  from  a  good  phonograph.  So 
far  as  I  had  followed  it,  their  conversation 
consisted  of  "Yes,  Miss  Myrten,"  or  "Yes, 
Mamma,"  or  "Miss  Myrten,  may  I  have  an- 
other glass  of  milk,"  or  "Miss  Myrten,  may  I 
walk  off  the  gravel?"  or  some  similar  com- 
monplace, until  I  had  begun  to  doubt  whether 
they  had  any  inner  souls.     They  had  seem- 


42  Misunderstood  Children. 

ingly  never  had  any  provocation  to  deepen 
or  raise  the  pitch  of  their  voices  or  to  in- 
tensify the  tone.  Little  did  I  dream  of  their 
dramatic  power  that  was  soon  to  be  revealed 
to  me ! 

Each  morning,  when  the  rest  of  the  chil- 
dren started  for  their  surf  bath,  Anna  and 
Harriet  had  their  lesson  in  English  history 
with  their  governess.  Not  that  their  physical 
well-being  was  neglected.  Oh,  no !  Each 
afternoon,  when  the  bathhouses  were  de- 
serted, they  were  taken  down  to  the  beach  by 
Miss  Myrten.  They  were  allowed  to  re- 
main in  the  warm  sea  water  just  nine  minutes 
by  her  watch,  which  she  held  in  her  hand 
from  the  time  they  stepped  out  of  the  bath- 
house to  the  minute  when  in  calm,  unruffled, 
but  not-to-be-disobeyed  tones  she  called  out, 
"Come,  Anna,  the  time  is  up."  Sometimes 
Harriet  took  a  longing  look  at  the  slow  roll- 
ing of  an  oncoming  wave,  but  Anna  always 
stepped  out  of  the  water  in  instant  obedience 
to  the  call,  as  if  the  sea  and  air  meant  no 
more  to  her  than  did  the  English  his- 
tory or  the  botany  lessons.  I  forgot  to 
state  that  their  regular  afternoon  tramp 
of  a  mile  and  a  half  was  always  accompanied 
by  a  botany  lesson  as  lifeless  and  as  devoid 


The  Twins.  43 

of  interest  as  was  the  face  of  the  governess. 
They  were  laboriously  compiling  an  herb- 
arium and  committing  to  memory  the  names 
of  each  of  the  plants  they  pressed,  dried  and 
mounted.  A  revelation  was  to  come,  but  not 
yet. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  a  group  of  chil- 
dren gathered  around  an  enterprising  boy 
who  was  performing  what  to  them  was  a 
wonderful  trick  of  balancing  one  nail  on  the 
head  of  another.  The  twins  were  watching. 
Harriet's  face  brightened  a  bit.  "Mamma," 
she  said,  turning  to  her  mother,  "is  it  wrong 
to  balance  one  nail  on  another  on  Sunday?" 
The  mother  merely  answered  without  look- 
ing up,  "I  am  reading  now,  Harriet.  You 
must  not  interrupt  me  with  questions?"  Anna 
frowned  a  scarcely  perceptible  frown.  The 
two  exchanged  looks,  but  decided  to  be  on  the 
safe  side  as  to  Sunday  amusements.  So  Har- 
riet subsided,  smoothed  out  the  slightly  dis- 
arranged skirt  of  her  gingham  dress  and 
dropped  her  hands  idly  into  her  lap.  They 
returned  to  their  motionless  watching  of  the 
other  children  as  each  took  turn  in  trying  to 
make  the  one  nail  rest  in  a  horizontal  position 
on  the  head  of  the  other. 
4 


44  Misunderstood  Children. 

All  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted  with 
childish  delight  at  the  end  of  each  experiment, 
whether  it  succeeded  or  failed.  For  was  it 
not  the  effort  they  enjoyed  rather  than  the  re- 
sult? The  twins  did  not  stir  from  the  upper 
step  on  which  they  were  seated,  but  their  eyes 
followed  admiringly  the  movements  of  the 
group  below.  Once  Anna  glanced  up  at  their 
mother.  Was  there  a  gleam  of  resentment  in 
her  eye?  It  could  not  have  been!  I  must 
have  been  mistaken,  for  the  next  instant  she 
was  gazing  at  the  sea  with  the  usual  expres- 
sion of  ennui  on  her  face,  as  if  nothing  in  life 
mattered  much.  "You  poor,  lifeless,  little 
creatures,"  I  thought,  as  I  turned  back  to  my 
book  again. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  those  dreary 
wastes  of  leaden  sky  and  leaden  sea,  with  the 
atmosphere  between  so  saturated  with  fog 
that  it  too  weighed  with  leaden-like  depres- 
sion upon  one's  spirits.  All  the  men  had  gone 
off  fishing  and  the  women  had  retired  to  their 
rooms  to  write  letters  or  read  light  novels. 
The  children  alone  retained  their  life  and  vi- 
tality. A  group  of  them  took  possession  of 
the  veranda  just  outside  of  my  window.  The 
hotel-keeper's  nine-year-old  daughter  was  evi- 


The  Twins.  45 

dently  the  leader.  "Let's  play  house,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Now,  I'll  be  hotel-keeper  and  you 
and  Harris  (aged  eight  and  two,  respective- 
ly) must  go  round  the  corner  there,  and  that's 
your  house."  "Now,  Annie,  you  and  Sara 
must  be  my  hired  help  and  we'll  be  getting  the 
hotel  ready  for  summer  boarders."  All  joined 
in  eagerly  and  then  followed  the  overturning 
of  veranda  chairs  to  make  hotel  rooms,  halls, 
office  and  dining  room.  One  or  two  more  chil- 
dren, attracted  by  the  noise  and  hustle,  joined 
the  group  and  were  appointed  to  their  role  of 
summer  boarders  or  hired  help  as  seemed  best 
to  the  self-appointed  leader.  (For  that  matter 
are  not  all  leaders  among  children  self-ap- 
pointed?) "Now  you  must  write,  and  then 
you  must  telegraph  to  know  if  I  can  let  you 
have  a  room."  This  to  the  eight-year-old 
whose  head  was  inquisitively  protruding  from 
around  the  corner.  "Dear,  me !  I  must  go 
to  town  for  some  soap !  Some  people  are  so 
fussy  about  their  soap."  Her  assumed  tone 
of  vexation  told  volumes  of  the  petty  annoy- 
ances to  which  the  eccentricities  of  city  board- 
ers had  put  her  maternal  relative.  The  new 
arrivals  began  to  appear  and  were  hustlingly 
shown  to  their  rooms,  and  left  there  with  the 


4-6  Misunderstood  Children. 

parting  injunction,  "Ring  for  the  maid  if  you 
need  anything."  Then  another  child  would 
be  hastily  pressed  into  role  of  maid. 

uTing-a-ling,  ling,"  called  the  eight-year- 
old  from  over  the  walls  of  her  upturned  chair. 
"Bring  me  a  pitcher  of  hot  water,"  she  said 
with  haughty  air  to  the  new  maid.  "I  wish 
to  give  my  child  a  baarth."  This  was  said 
with  a  clever  mimicry  of  the  drawl  of  some 
fine  ladies.  "Has  the  baarthtub  been  washed 
out?"  she  drawled  again.  "Yes,  marm." 
"Are  there  plenty  of  towels?"  "Yes,  marm," 
mumbled  the  maid,  assuming  at  once  an  ex- 
pression of  hopeless  dullness.  "Ve'y  well," 
drawled  the  fine  lady.  "You  may  clean  up 
my  room  while  I  am  out."  At  this,  up 
bobbed  the  young  mistress  of  the  hostelry. 
"The  maid  has  to  take  care  of  the  parlor  and 
halls,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  severe  re- 
proof. "She  cannot  wait  on  you."  All  the 
child's  New  England  ancestry  rebelled,  even 
in  play,  against  this  snobbery.  The  imperious 
guest  subsided.  "Oh,  well,  then,"  in  a  concilia- 
tory tone,  "I  will  get  some  warm  water  out  of 
this  faucet."  Then,  with  wifely  superiority, 
just  tinged  with  irritability,  she  turned  her 
head,  so  to  speak,  over  her  shoulder,  to  an  in- 


The  Twins.  47 

visible  husband,  "My  dear,  will  you  shut  that 
door !  I  cannot  give  the  baby  his  baarth  in  a 
draught!"  After  this  there  followed  the 
imaginary  washing  of  the  face  of  the  two- 
year-old.  "There  !  Now  you  have  had  a  nice 
fresh  baarth.  You  must  lie  down  until  dinner 
time.  Dear!  dear!  I  am  so  dusty!"  From 
the  scrupulous  brushing  and  shaking  of  skirts 
that  followed,  I  surmised  an  overly  clean, 
lervous  mamma  was  her  type  of  ideal  woman- 
hood. Going  to  the  edge  of  the  overturned 
chair  (the  supposed  door  of  her  room),  she 
called  out  in  a  querulous  tone,  "Is  dinner 
ready?"  "No,"  shortly  answered  the  land- 
lady from  the  space  formed  by  the  next  over- 
turned chair.  "We  have  dinner  at  twelve 
o'clock  in  this  house !"  Then,  in  an  entire 
change  of  tone,  "Dear!  dear!  dear!  I  forgot 
the  crackers  for  dinner !  Here,  Sallie,  you  run 
down  to  the  store  and  get  some  quick !" 

The  tribulations  of  hotel-keeping  pro- 
ceeded. "Madam,"  called  out  the  discon- 
tented city  boarder,  will  you  have  one  of  the 
maids  bring  a  cup  of  cocoa  to  my  room?  I 
must  feed  my  baby." 

All  her  thoughts  seemed  to  center  around 
her  baby.    The  little  two-year-old  was  made 


48  Misunderstood  Children. 

to  sit  up,  to  play  drinking  the  cocoa,  was  taken 
out  for  a  walk,  was  given  another  "baarth," 
and  was,  much  against  his  will,  made  to  lie 
down  again  "to  rest  a  little  after  dinner." 

In  the  meantime  the  landlady  was  bustling 
about,  rearranging  the  rooms  (improvised 
from  more  chairs  dragged  from  another  part 
of  the  veranda),  dusting  and  sweeping  with 
maginary  brush  and  broom,  ejaculating,  part- 
ly to  herself,  partly  to  the  maid  who  acted  out 
her  role  of  slow-witted  hired  help,  by  listlessly 
following  her  about:  "Dear  me !  I  do  hope 
some  more  people  will  come  !  We  must  have 
all  the  rooms  ready  for  them." 

And  so  the  play  progressed,  reproducing 
the  somewhat  uneventful  life  of  a  respectable 
seaside  hotel  on  the  New  England  coast,  the 
petty  cares  of  the  landlady,  clashing  now  and 
then  with  the  petty  action  of  the  city  boarders. 

Suddenly  the  twins  appeared.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  stood  mute  and  demure  looking 
with  their  usual  stolid  stare  upon  the  scene. 
Then  Anna  stepped  to  the  front.  "Oh,"  she 
exclaimed,  her  voice  quivering  with  excite- 
ment, "Let's  play  that  we've  come  to  the  ho- 
tel, too !  And  let's  play  a  robber  comes  to  the 
hotel  and  steals  our  child !"   "Here  Antony," 


The  Twins.  49 

she  cried,  seizing  an  eight-year-old  boy  in 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  finery,  "You  can  be 
the  robber."  "Oh,  yes,"  cried  Harriet,  her 
eyes  shining  with  the  excitement  of  the  occa- 
sion, "Let's  play  he  chloroforms  us!  Then 
steals  our  child!"  The  leadership  had 
changed  so  suddenly  from  the  landlady's  prac- 
tical daughter  to  the  twins  that  the  rest  of  the 
children  stood  open-mouthed,  gazing  in  dis- 
mayed astonishment  at  the  change  in  the  na- 
ture of  the  pastime. 

"Yes,"  cried  Anna,  as  she  pushed  first  one 
child  and  then  another  into  the  prospective 
bedrooms,  "Now  we  will  all  lie  down  and 
pretend  to  be  asleep.  And  Antony,  you  must 
c-r-a-w-1  in  at  the  window  and  chloroform  all 
of  us  and  then  steal  our  jewels  and  run  away 
with  our  baby."  "Oh!"  interrupted  Harriet, 
"let's  have  him  cut  all  our  throats  and  the 
policemen  come  next  morning  and  find  us  all 
dead!"  "No,"  said  Anna,  decisively,  "Some 
of  us  must  live  so  as  to  testify  in  the  court  that 
the  jewels  are  ours.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do. 
He  can  cut  your  throat  and  chloroform  me 
and  then  the  landlady  can  wake  up  the  next 
morning  and  see  the  blood  trickling  from 
under  the  door — and  come  and  bang  on  our 


50  Misunderstood  Children. 

door,  and  of  course  it  will  be  locked.  And 
then  the  police  can  break  it  open  and  find  you 
dead  and  me  chloroformed,  and  the  window 
open  and  the  baby  gone  !"  The  rapidity  with 
which  the  thrilling  scene  was  planned,  the  ex- 
ultation with  which  she  threw  out  her  arms  at 
the  close,  showed  that  it  was  an  old  and  be- 
loved plot  in  her  mind. 

I  glanced  at  the  other  children.  They  had 
partly  risen  from  their  prostrate  positions  and 
sat  or  crouched  in  various  attitudes,  drinking 
in  the  horror  and  the  daring  of  the  proposed 
drama.  "Oh,  yes,"  cried  Harriet,  in  ecstacy 
of  delight.  "And  let's  play  that  you  offered  a 
thousand  dollars  reward  for  the  child!  And 
let's  play  the  police  found  the  murderer's 
bloody  tracks  on  the  grass.  And — "  Here 
she  caught  her  breath,  the  scene  was  so  real  to 
her —  "let's  play  that  they  followed  the  blood- 
stained footprints  to  a  cave  !  And  there  they 
found  him  crouching  in  a  dark  corner  with  a 
bowie-knife  in  his  hand!  And  let's  play — " 
"Harriet,"  called  the  voice  of  Miss  Myrten, 
"it  is  time  for  you  and  Anna  to  come  in  for 
your  lessons." 

I  sighed — but  what  could  /  do  ? 


FOR  FATHER'S  AMUSEMENT. 


I  was  strolling  through  a  neighboring  park 
one  breezy  September  day  when  it  occurred. 
It  took  less  than  ten  minutes  from  beginning 
to  end — but  did  it  end  then? 

There  had  been  a  shower  the  night  before, 
and  the  city's  dust  had  been  washed  from  the 
air  and  from  leaves  on  trees  and  shrubbery. 
All  nature  seemed  in  fine  mood  and  had  filled 
me,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  town-imprisoned 
mortals,  with  some  of  her  exuberance  and  life. 

This  keen  enjoyment  of  mere  existence, 
which  nature  alone  can  give,  was  particularly 
noticeable  in  the  bouyant  movements  of  a  lit- 
tle three-year-old  child,  who  was  dancing  in 
and  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  tall  trees,  now 
running,  now  skipping,  now  jumping  in  the 
joyous  exhilaration  of  mere  animal  life.  Ever 
and  anon  he  looked  back  at  his  father  and  his 
father's  friend,  who  were  strolling  along  in  a 
more  sedate  enjoyment  of  the  fresh  air  and 
glittering  sunshine.  The  fact  that  each  of 
them  carried  a  tennis  racket  showed  that  they, 
too,  were  out  for  a  holiday. 

51 


52  Misunderstood  Children. 

The  child's  delight  in  all  the  freshness  and 
freedom  about  him  quickened  his  senses,  as  it 
always  will  quicken  a  healthy  child.  In  a  few 
moments  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the 
bending,  swaying  branches  of  a  nearby  clump 
of  willow  trees.  The  fascination  of  the  lithe, 
graceful  movement  of  the  boughs  was  so 
strong  that  he  stopped  and  stood  with  up- 
turned face,  gazing  at  them  until  the  two  men 
approached  him.  Then  catching  hold  of  his 
father's  hand  he  exclaimed,  "See  !  see  !"  point- 
ing to  the  nodding  tree  branches.  His  face 
was  full  of  happiness,  and  his  eyes  were  look- 
ing into  his  father's  eyes  expecting  sympathy 
in  this  new-found  wonder  of  nature.  But  the 
father  gave  no  heed  to  what  was  interesting 
the  boy.  Instead,  he  began  playfully  slapping 
him  on  his  skirts  with  the  tennis  racket,  at  the 
same  time  saying,  "Will  you  be  good?"  "Will 
you  be  good?"  "No,"  answered  the  child  in 
high  glee.  It  was  evidently  a  familiar  pas- 
time between  them.  "Will  you  be  good?"  re- 
peated the  father,  in  mock  threat  lifting  the 
tennis  racket  as  if  to  strike  the  child  over  the 
head.  "No,  I  won't !  No,  I  won't !"  shouted 
the  boy  as  he  scampered  off  over  the  grass. 
This  created  a  chase  in  which  the  father  play- 


For  Father's  Amusement.  53 

fully  spanked  the  captured  boy  as  with  make- 
believe  wrath  he  dragged  him  back  to  the  side- 
walk. Having  returned  to  the  starting  point  of 
the  chase  he  released  the  boy  with  the  words, 
"There,  now,  I'll  spank  you  hard  if  you  are 
not  a  good  boy !"  He  had  scarcely  let  go  his 
hold  on  the  youngster's  arm  before  the  latter 
again  ran  off,  shouting  in  high  glee,  "No, 
I  won't!  No,  I  won't  be  good!"  Again 
came  the  chase  and  again  the  playful 
spanking  and  dragging  back  and  the  release 
with  an  admonition  that  he  would  get  a  beat- 
ing this  time  if  he  were  not  a  good  boy.  The 
tone  in  which  the  words  were  said  was  an  in- 
vitation to  the  child  to  renew  the  game. 

The  third  time  he  started  off,  however,  the 
other  man  decided  that  he,  too,  would  take 
part  in  the  sport.  So  he  quickly  put  his  tennis 
racket  in  front  of  the  boy,  thus  obstructing 
his  path.  The  child  manfully  struggled  to  push 
it  aside,  but  could  not.  Soon  his  "No,  I  won't" 
in  answer  to  his  father's  "Will  you  be  good?" 
had  in  it  a  note  of  fretfulness,  or,  rather, 
of  resentment.  He  was  now  contending  with 
two  grown  men  and  his  strength  was  not  equal 
to  the  strain.  He  pushed  angrily  against  the 
racket  in  front  while  trying  at  the  same  time 


54  Misunderstood  Children. 

to  avoid  the  light  blows  from  the  one  in  the 
rear.  With  cat-like  agility  the  man  in  front 
would  withdraw  his  obstructing  tennis  racket 
until  the  boy  started  forward  and  then  check 
— would  come  the  racket  just  in  front  of  him. 
The  very  movement  of  his  arm  was  like  that 
of  a  cat  regaining  his  hold  on  an  escaping 
mouse.  A  peal  of  laughter  from  him  each 
time  he  caught  the  exasperated  child  showed 
how  much  he  was  enjoying  the  sport.  The 
father  seemed  equally  amused  and  joined 
heartily  in  thwarting  the  efforts  of  the  boy  to 
escape.  The  little  fellow's  face  grew  red  and 
he  was  soon  short  of  breath  from  his  strug- 
gles, and  there  was  the  angry  sob  of  defeat  in 
his  voice.  The  scene  ended  by  the  child's 
getting  into  a  towering  rage. 

When  they  passed  out  of  sight  the  father 
had  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  was  forcing 
him  along,  the  boy  kicking  and  struggling, 
but  powerless  to  help  himself.  The  two  men 
were  laughing  heartily. 

The  child's  blood  had  been  poisoned  by  the 
heat  of  anger,  he  had  exhausted  his  physical 
vitality  and  his  nervous  system  had  been  dis- 
arranged, not  to  speak  of  his  moral  stand- 
ards— but  then,  the  father  and  his  friend  had 
been  amused. 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  DIVERSION. 


It  was  a  warm  Sunday  morning  in  June. 
Fatigued  from  the  taxing  work  of  the  day  be- 
fore, I  sat  idly  gazing  at  the  rather  unattrac- 
tive rear  view  of  some  three-story  flats  not 
more  than  a  hundred  feet  away.  They  were 
flats  that  rented  for  "moderate"  sums,  and 
consequently  were  small,  with  little  out-of- 
door  air  or  sunshine.  They  presented  a 
monotonous  row  of  narrow  back  balconies. 
Each  one  was  enclosed  by  a  wooded  railing 
and  had  a  steep,  iron  stairway  that,  curving  a 
little  to  break  the  steepness,  led  down  to  the 
balcony  below,  and  from  that  the  smooth  con- 
crete pavement  of  what  might  be  called  out 
of  courtesy,  their  back  yards. 

The  scene  was  not  unlike  thousands  of 
similar  rear  views  in  any  large  city.  My  eyes 
wandered  listlessly  over  the  dreary  picture, 
and  then  came  the  thought,  "What  a  place  in 
which  to  bring  up  a  child!"  It  was  the  old 
inner  protest  that  I  so  often  found  myself 
making  against  the  imprisonment  of  children 
in  the  congested  parts  of  great  cities,  and  yet 


56  Misunderstood  Children. 

— "What  are  working  people  to  do  ?"  "They 
have  to  live  near  their  work!"  was  the  usual 
reply  when  my  inner  protest  voiced  itself  in 
words. 

This  time,  being  alone,  I  did  not  utter  my 
protest,  but  began  instinctively  looking  for 
signs  of  child-life.  There  they  were,  sure 
enough.  An  old  chair  turned  on  its  side  had 
been  placed  on  one  upper  balcony  across  the 
opening  made  for  the  iron  stairway.  Of 
course,  it  was  put  there  to  keep  some  child 
from  tumbling  downstairs  and  breaking  his 
collar  bone,  or,  possibly,  his  neck.  Still  it  was 
a  prison  door,  which  prevented  the  aspiring 
young  explorer  from  exerting  his  God-given 
right  of  investigating  the  world  around  him, 
of  mastering  its  obstacles  and  discovering  its 
laws.  I  wondered  if  his  mother  realized  this? 
I  wondered  if  she  gave  him  the  partial  com- 
pensation of  going  to  the  market  with  her  ?  I 
wondered  if  she  ever  took  him  to  the  park  for 
an  afternoon's  holiday? 

Ah !  there  they  are  now !  The  kitchen  door 
had  opened  and  a  rather  good-looking  woman 
with  her  hair  still  in  curl  papers  and  wearing 
a  flowered  dressing-sacque,  came  out  onto 
the  small  porch,  followed  by  a  three-year-old 


A  Sunday  Morning  Diversion.         57 

boy,  dressed  in  spotless  white,  with  a  modish 
black  patent  leather  belt,  short  socks  and  pat- 
ent leather  slippers. 

I  had  them  catalogued  before  the  mother 
went  in  and  shut  the  door.  She  was  a  young 
wife,  with  the  bridal  days  still  near  enough 
not  to  have  lost  the  desire  of  looking  pleasing 
in  the  eyes  of  her  husband.  The  flowered 
dressing-sacque  and  hair  in  curl  papers 
showed  that.  (Why  do  women  ever  grow 
careless  as  to  their  morning  attire  ?  It  is  one 
of  the  priceless  gifts  they  can  give  to  their 
husbands.  A  frowzy,  dirty-looking  woman  is 
enough  to  take  away  any  man's  appetite.) 
And  the  boy — he  was,  in  all  probability,  their 
first  child.  Women  who  live  in  small,  stuffy 
flats  and  do  all  their  own  housework  rarely 
ever  dress  a  second  or  third  child  in  spotless 
white  garments  with  the  latest  fashionable  ad- 
ditions to  the  costume. 

I  had  only  a  moment  in  which  to  ponder 
over  the  form  of  mother  love  that  spent 
money  for  a  child's  clothes  and  scrimped  on 
air  and  sunshine.  It  is  such  a  common  mis- 
take that  one  learns  to  expect  it. 

The  boy  soon  engaged  my  attention — he 
was  too  bright  and  active  a  little  fellow  to 


58  Misunderstood  Children. 

stand  still  long,  even  if  the  sunshine  were 
pouring  down  its  glad  light  upon  him.  Per- 
haps that  helped  to  stir  the  life  within  him.  It 
does  this  in  plants, — why  not  in  human  be- 
ings ?  He  raced  up  and  down  the  ten-by-five- 
foot  balcony  several  times.  Then  he  worked 
at  the  upturned  chair  which  held  the  gateway 
to  the  outside  world.  Finding  that  he  could 
not  loosen  it,  however,  he  soon  gave  up  the 
effort,  good-naturedly  enough.  It  was  evi- 
dently an  old  experience  of  his.  Then  he  be- 
gan climbing  up  on  to  the  lower  horizontal 
board  of  the  railing  that  enclosed  the  little 
porch.  This  enabled  him  to  look  down  to  the 
cement  pavement  and  the  alley  beyond.  He 
gazed  at  this  larger  world  for  a  short  time. 
But  normal  children  are  not  so  constituted 
that  they  can  be  mere  spectators.  They  need 
to  be  doing  something,  to  be  exercising  some 
power  within  by  using  it.  So  he  climbed  down 
and  up  again,  until  he  had  mastered  that  feat. 
Then  he  looked  around  for  some  new  activity. 
A  tin  can  stood  on  the  upper  railing.  He 
reached  for  it,  held  it  suspended  in  the  air  for 
a  moment,  then  let  it  drop  and  from  his 
mounted  position  leaned  far  over  the  balcony 
and  watched  it  whirl  and  whiz  through  the 


A  Sunday  Morning  Diversion.         59 

air,  until  with  a  loud  clattering  noise,  it 
struck  the  pavement  below.  Haven't  you  had 
the  same  instinctive  impulse  to  play  thus  with 
the  law  of  gravity  by  dropping  a  stone  from 
some  high  place  from  which  you  were  looking 
down  to  some  unmeasured  depth  below?  If 
so,  you  will  understand  what  followed.  You 
and  I  are  accustomed  to  the  sensation  of  see- 
ing objects  fall  from  high  places.  We  know 
why  they  do  it,  and  yet  we  still  throw  rocks 
down  echoing  canons,  bits  of  wood  or  paper 
from  high  bridges.  To  the  boy  this  was  a 
new  and  stimulating  experience.  He  danced 
up  and  down  in  glee  over  it.  Then,  naturally 
enough,  he  wanted  to  repeat  the  experiment. 
He  looked  around.  A  broom  stood  in  the 
corner.  He  tried  to  handle  that,  but  it  was 
too  much  for  him.  He  next  stooped  over  a 
wooden  box  to  examine  the  possibilities  that  it 
might  contain.  In  a  moment  more  he  had 
climbed  on  to  the  lower  railing  again  and  was 
holding  high  above  his  head  a  bottle  of  beer. 
Then  it  went  whirling  down  through  space. 
With  a  crash  of  glass  and  a  sputter  of  beer,  it 
subsided  in  the  concrete  below.  The  little 
fellow  was  wild  with  excitement.  The  shat- 
tered glass  glistened  and  gleamed.    The  beer 

5 


60  Misunderstood  Children. 

foamed  a  little  from  the  severe  shaking  it  had 
received.  He  leaned  farther  over  the  rail- 
ing and  gazed  with  delight  upon  the  work 
which  his  hands  had  wrought.  Then  he 
shouted  for  joy.  Of  course,  such  an  exciting 
experience  as  this  must  be  repeated.  Ask  any 
scientist  if  he  would  not  reproduce,  if  he 
could,  any  new  and  hitherto  unknown  phe- 
nomenon, which  had  by  accident  presented  it- 
self to  him  in  his  laboratory  work. 

It  took  but  a  minute  of  time  to  climb  down, 
get  another  of  the  beer  bottles  and  send  it 
hurling  down,  down,  down  to  the  concrete 
pavement  below.  Then  a  third  bottle  was 
sent  after  the  other  two;  then  a  fourth;  then 
a  fifth;  then  a  sixth. 

The  game  was  getting  exciting.  I  found 
myself  leaning  forward — eagerly  anticipating 
the  next  and  the  next.  A  thrill  of  the  danger 
of  the  after  consequences  intensified  my  in- 
terest. But  no  thought  of  possible  punish- 
ment was  in  his  mind.  He  was  filled  with 
pure,  unadulterated  delight.  Evidently  he  had 
never  been  allowed  to  lower  an  empty  spool 
tied  to  a  string  down  to  the  mysterious  depths 
below  and  then  draw  it  up  again  at  his  own 
sweet  pleasure.    Apparently  this  was  his  first 


A  Sunday  Morning  Diversion.         61 

experience  in  playing  with  the  distance  be- 
tween him  and  the  earth;  his  first  feeling  of 
power  over  space  !  A  child  instinctively  loves 
to  transform  the  appearance  of  things.  It 
matters  little  to  him  whether  the  transforma- 
tion is  destructive  or  constructive.  It  is  the 
feeling  that  he  has  the  power  to  change  things 
that  craves  satisfaction  in  outer  demonstra- 
tion. That  is  why  children,  when  let  alone,  so 
often  destroy  their  manufactured  toys.  Wise 
is  the  mother,  indeed,  who  furnishes  her  child 
with  playthings  which  can  easily  be  taken  to 
pieces  and  put  together  again.  Wiser  still  is 
the  mother  who  supplies  toys  which  can  be 
transformed  into  new  shapes  without  injury. 
But  let  us  come  back  to  our  boy.  Neither 
he  nor  I  had  time  just  now  for  soliloquy  or 
contemplation.  The  seventh  bottle  followed 
the  sixth.  The  eighth  quickly  followed  the 
seventh.  The  boy's  white  skirts  fairly  switched 
as  he  whirled  from  the  beer-case  to  the  rail- 
ing and  from  the  railing  to  the  beer-case.  His 
excitement  was  contagious.  Would  he  get  the 
last  bottle  before  a  halt  was  called?  was  the 
thought  that  was  uppermost  in  my  mind.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  have  thought  of  the  wasted 
beer,  but  I  didn't.  Why  hadn't  he  been  taught 


62  Misunderstood  Children. 

the  right  use  of  high  places  ?  He  was  merely 
finding  out  for  himself  that  which  ought  to 
have  been  taught  him  long  ago.  The  ninth — 
tenth — and  eleventh  bottle  followed  in  quick 
succession,  until  at  last  the  twelve  lay 
in  a  shattered  heap  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  the  boy,  flushed  with  success,  leaned  far- 
ther still  over  the  railing  in  order  that  he 
might  get  a  better  view  of  what  he  had  accom- 
plished. Possibly  a  dim  foreboding  of  the 
great  law  of  gravity  was  stirring  the  ancestral 
subconsciousness  within  him.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  mere  joy  of  doing  something  that  caused 
him  to  clap  his  hands  and  fairly  crow  with 
delight. 

Just  at  this  juncture  the  mother  opened  the 
kitchen  door  and  saw  how  her  child,  left  to 
his  own  resources,  had  entertained  himself. 
He  turned  his  face  toward  her  and  pointing 
down  below  called,  "Come  see  !"  But  she  had 
already  seen — from  her  standpoint — and  evi- 
dently she  did  not  stop  to  consider  his  stand- 
point. She  sprang  forward,  seized  him  by 
the  arm  and  exclaimed  in  a  loud,  angry  voice, 
Oh,  you  wretch!  What  will  your  father 
say!" 

A  look  of  bewildered  astonishment  came  on 


A  Sunday  Morning  Diversion.         63 

the  boy's  face.  What  had  he  done  ?  He  had 
merely  been  amusing  himself  by  testing  the 
velocity  of  falling  bodies  and  the  fragile 
nature  of  glass.  But  there  was  no  time  for 
explanations.  He  would  not  have  been  able 
to  have  told  her  why  he  had  done  what  he 
had  done  if  she  had  given  him  a  chance.  As 
it  was,  she  dragged  him  into  the  apartment, 
slammed  the  door  with  a  bang,  and  then  soon 
I  heard  the  long,  loud  wail  of  a  child's  voice, 
as  if  in  physical  pain. 


THE  GEOGRAPHY  LESSON. 


Beta  was  a  dreamy  child,  one  of  those  chil- 
dren who  seem  to  live  in  a  world  of  their  own, 
regardless  of  the  commonplace,  everyday 
things  that  are  going  on  around  them.  Her 
large,  dark  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  in  them, 
as  if  they  were  seeing  all  sorts  of  things  that 
you  did  not  see,  and  oftentimes  her  answer  to 
your  question  or  her  assent  to  your  plans  was 
given  in  such  a  way  that  you  were  sure  she 
had  not  heard  a  word  you  had  been  saying. 

Her  brothers  were  wont  to  tease  her  by  tell- 
ing her  she  had  been  "wool-gathering." 
She  didn't  know  just  what  "wool-gathering" 
meant,  but  the  tone  of  derision  in  which  they 
would  say  it  made  her  feel  that  it  was  a  ter- 
rible fault,  to  be  hidden  as  much  as  possible, 
and  of  which  she  ought  to  be  thoroughly 
ashamed,  so  she  generally  answered  their  ac- 
cusation with,  "I  wasn't  either,  I  was  just 
thinking!"  This  usually  brought  a  shout  of 
laughter  on  their  part,  and  the  deeper  accusa- 
tion, "You  couldn't  tell  to  save  your  life  what 
we  were  talking  about !"    And  as  she  couldn't 

64 


The  Geography  Lesson.  6$ 

she  usually  fled  to  her  room  for  the  relief 
of  tears.  Her  gentle  mother,  who  real- 
ized that  she  must  learn  the  practical  side  of 
life  also,  had  frequently  begun  with  these 
words,  "Now,  my  daughter,  listen  to  what  I 
am  saying.  It  is  not  well  bred  to  ask  an  older 
person  to  repeat  a  request."  At  such  times 
Beta  would  try  her  best  to  forget  about  the 
glittering  world  of  fairies  and  elves,  or  to 
stop  thinking  of  how  grand  St.  George  must 
have  looked  as  he  galloped  forward  to  kill 
the  horrid  dragon  and  rescue  the  beautiful 
princess,  or  whatever  other  world  of  wonder- 
ful things  and  heroic  people  she  had  been 
dreaming  of  and  to  remember  just  when 
mother  wanted  the  baby  to  be  fed,  or  just 
what  the  words  were  in  the  message  that  she 
was  to  take  to  Aunt  Sallie  on  her  way  to 
school,  for  she  adoringly  admired  her  gentle 
mother.  Yet  she  would  have  submitted  to  the 
torture  of  the  rack  before  she  would  have  re- 
vealed to  this  same  beloved  mother  any  of  her 
glorious  visions. 

Although  her  mother  was  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent responsible  for  the  dream  world  in  which 
Beta  lived,  she  was  a  woman  of  more  than  the 
average   culture,   and   had  taken   refuge   in 


66  Misunderstood  Children. 

books,  from  the  uncongenial  surroundings  of 
a  small  Western  town.  She  was  devoted  to 
her  children  and,  naturally,  had  drawn  them 
into  her  book-world.  Beta's  earliest  recol- 
lections were  of  sitting  on  the  floor  at  her 
mother's  feet,  while  Aunt  Sallie  read  Shakes- 
peare aloud,  and  her  mother's  swift  needle 
darted  in  and  out  of  her  sewing.  Of 
course  she  did  not  understand  it,  but  the 
majesty  and  rhythm  of  the  blank  verse  fasci- 
nated her.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  since  she 
could  remember,  the  three  boys  and  she  had 
sat  listening  spell-bound  to  the  mother's  Bible 
stories.  She  seemed  to  have  had  a  personal 
acquaintance,  this  mother  of  theirs,  with  all 
the  old  Hebrew  prophets,  and  Beta  never 
questioned  her  mother's  close  friendship  with 
Moses  and  Daniel,  her  own  two  favorite 
Bible  heroes. 

(You  see  she  did  not  have  a  very  clear  com- 
prehension of  historic  perspective.)  Then  on 
week-day  evenings  they  had  the  old  Norse 
tales  of  ice  caves  and  giants  and  bloody 
battles  a  thousand  years  or  more  old,  or 
the  folk  stories,  gathered  from  six  hun- 
dred years  of  myth-making  of  the  Teutonic 
peoples.     Sometimes  it  was  the  Aurthurean 


The  Geography  Lesson.  67 

legends,  of  which  her  brothers  were  most 
fond,  but  Beta  herself  loved  dear  Hans  Ander- 
sen best  of  all.  And  often  after  going  to  bed 
she  would  lie  for  a  long  time  listening  to  the 
stories  the  moon  had  to  tell,  or  she  would 
imagine  herself  riding  on  the  back  of  the  north 
wind  to  unknown  lands,  or  playing  the  part  of 
some  other  hero  or  heroine  of  the  dear  old 
Dane.  By  the  time  she  was  eight  years  old 
Beta  could  read  fairy  tales  for  herself,  and 
great  was  her  joy  when,  on  her  last  birthday, 
because  she  was  eleven  years  old,  her  mother 
had  given  to  her  the  volume  of  Homer's 
"Odyssey,"  which  she  herself  had  read  when 
she  was  a  girl  of  twelve.  She  had  often  told 
Beta  how  she  had  stood  beside  her  mother  and 
read  aloud  from  it  while  her  mother  stitched 
and  mended  for  a  family  of  eleven.  They 
were  "Southern  gentry,"  these  forefathers  of 
Beta,  and  had  felt  that  they  must  have  the 
"world-culture"  which  their  ancestors  had 
had,  even  if  deprived  of  the  leisure  of  that 
former  time.  So  Beta's  mother  had  read  from 
Homer  and  Milton  and  Shakespeare  to  her 
mother  when  they  lived  on  the  old  Kentucky 
farm.  Thus  you  see  Beta  came  legitimately 
into  her  love  of  the  heroic  and  the  beautiful, 


68  Misunderstood  Children. 

and  a  rich  world  of  romance  and  adventure 
it  was,  peopled  with  giants  and  genii,  kings 
and  queens,  prophets  and  priests. 

Of  course  she  was  very  trying  to  her  teach- 
er, little  Miss  Simpson,  who  was  honestly 
striving  to  earn  her  thirty-five  dollars  a  month 
by  having  the  children  learn  the  text-books  so 
thoroughly  that  they  could  answer  every  ques- 
tion on  examination  day.  It  had  never  en- 
tered the  head  of  little  Miss  Simpson  that 
education  meant  anything  else  than  passing 
examinations,  or  that  a  teacher  had  other 
duties  than  to  teach  the  contents  of  the  text- 
books which  the  board  of  education  had  se- 
lected for  that  year.  So  don't  blame  her  too 
severely  for  what  happened  one  warm  June 
day,  when  through  the  open  window  could  be 
seen  the  soft  white  clouds  drifting  lazily  over 
the  blue  sky,  and  when  the  droning  hum  of  in- 
sects told  plainly  of  the  deliciousness  of  the 
out-of-door  life.  All  day  it  had  been  hard  for 
Miss  Simpson  to  keep  the  attention  of  the  chil- 
dren on  their  books,  and  now  a  geography  les- 
son was  in  progress.  The  class  were  trying  to 
bound  the  different  countries  of  Europe,  con- 
cerning which  they  knew  but  little  and  cared 
less.     Miss  Simpson  had  been  compelled  to 


The  Geography  Lesson.  69 

speak  twice  to  Joe  Freen  about  the  disturb- 
ance he  was  making,  and  to  rebuke  Jerry  Mac- 
man  for  catching  flies.  Annie  Welsh  had  nod- 
ded sleepily  and  had  let  her  book  fall  out  of 
her  hands,  and  now  there  sat  Beta,  staring  at 
the  map  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  school- 
room instead  of  looking  at  the  map  in  the 
geography  as  Miss  Simpson  had  told  all  the 
class  to  do.  Then,  too,  Beta's  eyes  were  lighted 
with  an  expression  of  pleased  surprise,  so  of 
course  she  couldn't  be  thinking  of  her  geog- 
raphy lesson.  Little  Miss  Simpson  was  tired 
and  a  wee  bit  nervous,  and  felt  sure  Beta 
would  fail  in  her  examination  if  she  did  not 
pay  better  attention  to  the  bounding  of  the 
different  countries  of  Europe.  That  question 
was  sure  to  come  in  the  examination.  It  did 
every  year.  So  Miss  Simpson  felt  it  her  duty 
to  say,  "Beta,  what  are  you  doing?"  As  I  said, 
she  was  weary  and  her  voice  had  just  a  little 
edge  of  annoyance  in  it.  "I — "  stammered 
Beta,  "I  was  watching  the  Turks  carry  the  lit- 
ter of  the  princess  to  her  father's  palace."  She 
had  been  reading  in  the  Arabian  Nights  the 
evening  before,  and  now  was  surprised  out  of 
her  usual  reticence.  "You  were  doing  what  ?" 
asked  Miss  Simpson  in  wide-eyed  astonish- 


70  Misunderstood  Children. 

ment.  She  had  never  heard  of  Arabian 
Nights,  it  was  not  in  her  normal  school 
course.  Beta  was  covered  with  confusion, 
for  now  all  the  school  were  staring  at  her, 
some  of  them  with  their  mouths  open,  ready 
for  the  laugh  that  was  sure  to  follow.  She 
gave  a  swift  glance  toward  the  door,  then 
into  the  faces  of  the  children  who  were  at 
their  desks — she  could  not  see  the  faces  of  her 
classmates.  There  was  no  help  for  it  now,  she 
must  try  to  make  them  understand  that  she 
was  not  dreaming,  that  she  was  only  thinking 
of  Constantinople  and  the  beautiful  church 
there,  and  the  strange  men  with  the  baggy 
trousers  that  the  moment  before  her  imagina- 
tion had  pictured  to  her.  So  she  hurried  on, 
suffering  acutely  as  she  spoke,  "I  was  looking 
at  the  map  on  the  wall  and  hunting  up  Con- 
stantinople, and  it  all  changed  into  a  great  city 
with  minarets  and  tall  towers  and  queer  for- 
eign men  in  Turkish  trousers,  and  red  fezes 
on  their  heads,  and  dogs  following  at  their 
heels,  and — and — "  She  hesitated,  but  stum- 
bled on,  "I  thought  I  saw  a  beautiful  princess 
being  carried  in  a  litter,  a  chair  with  curtains 
around  it,  you  know" —  She  looked  up  help- 
lessly at  Miss  Simpson — "  Don't  you  know 


The  Geography  Lesson.  71 

the  kind  of  a  chair  they  carried  Scherara- 
Zade  in  when  she  went  to  marry  the  Sultan?" 
Miss  Simpson  looked  blank. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  pleaded  Beta,  still 
more  confused  by  the  hush  that  had  fallen  on 
the  room,  "the  Sultan  whose  brother  was  king 
of  Tartary?"  Some  boys  giggled,  Miss 
Simpson  cut  her  short.  "No,  I  don't  remem- 
ber; besides  Tartary  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  bounding  the  countries  of  Europe.  You 
would  better  stop  your  wool-gathering  and 
pay  attention  to  your  lesson  if  you  want  to 
pass  the  examination."  At  this  all  the  boys 
snickered,  and  some  of  the  girls  stuffed  their 
handkerchiefs  into  their  mouths.  Beta  strug- 
gled bravely  to  keep  back  the  tears,  and  over- 
whelmed with  shame,  hung  her  head,  nor  did 
she  once  again  lift  it  that  afternoon.  She  had 
not  meant  to  displease  her  teacher,  nor  had 
she  known  how  wrong  it  was  to  call  up  the 
pictures  of  the  people  who  lived  in  the  coun- 
tries one  was  studying  about — you  see  she  was 
a  little  mixed  as  to  where  the  Sassanian  Mon- 
archy was  located.  But  it  must  have  been 
very  wicked,  else  Miss  Simpson  would  never 
have  said  she  was  "wool-gathering,"  before 
all  the  children !     It  was  terrible  !     Too  ter- 


72  Misunderstood  Children. 

rlble  to  bear,  and  she  had  to  bite  her  lips  hard 
to  keep  back  the  quick,  hot  tears. 

That  night,  when  alone  in  her  little  bed- 
room, with  only  the  stars  to  listen  (she  didn't 
mind  them,  they  were  so  near  God,  they  must 
be  kind),  she  poured  forth  her  passionate 
grief,  and  kneeling  beside  her  bed  she  sobbed : 

"Oh,  God,  dear  God,  make  me  to  be  like 
other  children."  Then  more  pleading.  "Oh, 
God,  dear  God,  don't  let  me  go  wool-gath- 
ering any  more  !  And  please,  dear,  dear  God, 
don't  let  me  see  princes  and  palaces  and  things 
where  there  is  only  a  cracked  wall  with  a  map 
hanging  on  it.    For  Jesus'  sake.    Amen. 

Then  she  rose.  Somehow  she  felt  as  if  the 
dear  God  would  understand  that  she  hadn't 
meant  to  do  wrong,  and  that  thought  com- 
forted her  much. 


THE  SAND  PILE. 


It  was  a  warm  summer  afternoon  and,  just 
recovering  from  a  headache,  I  sat  listlessly 
at  my  window,  too  weary  to  attempt  any 
work,  too  indolent  to  seek  any  amusement. 
My  eyes  drifted  aimlessly  over  the  familiar 
scene  of  an  empty  lot,  and  on  beyond  to  a 
new  house  which  had  recently  shut  out  my 
view  of  a  busy  thoroughfare. 

I  had  been  detained  in  the  city  that  summer 
by  some  necessary  work,  and  my  soul  was  in 
a  state  of  rebellion.  I  wanted  the  mountain- 
tops  with  their  exhilarating  air  and  ever- 
changing  marvel  of  outline  and  color,  vary- 
ing each  hour  with  every  change  in  the  at- 
mosphere !  I  longed  for  that  thrill  of  free- 
dom which  comes  with  the  vast  stretches  of 
level  prairie,  where, 


"There  are  no  hills,  although  one  ran 
For  miles  beyond  the  outer  rim." 


for, 


"The  large  remoteness  of  the  air 
Had  found  within  my  heart  a  place." 

73 


74  Misunderstood  Children. 

and  ever  and  anon  a  vision  stretched  before 
me,  a  long,  smooth  beach  of  yellow  sand 
with  the  ceaseless  rhythm  of  the  surf  beating 
upon  it,  and  I  saw  the  rise  and  fall  of  count- 
less waves,  extending  seemingly  into  eter- 
nity, so  dimly  distant  was  the  horizon  where 
the  sea  and  sky  met !  And  here  I  was,  shut 
up  in  town,  with  nothing  before  me  but  weeks 
of  taxing,  relentless  work !  I  was  out  of 
mood  with  myself,  and,  of  course,  with  my 
world.  In  vain  my  more  rational  self  ar- 
gued, "You  stayed  in  town  of  your  own 
accord.  You  must  realize  that  this  work 
is  of  more  value  than  a  vacation  could 
be!"  I  moved  petulantly  in  my  chair,  shift- 
ing my  position  uneasily.  I  was  in  no  mood 
to  be  rebuked.  "If  there  were  only  some  di- 
version in  between  times  I"  I  muttered.  "All 
work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy!" 
Then  that  rational  self  which  is  the  God- 
image  in  each  one  of  us  whispered,  "There 
are  a  thousand  diversions  all  around  you,  if 
you  choose  to  see  them.  One  doesn't  have  to 
have  mountains  and  oceans  and  thousands  of 
miles  of  prairie  air  to  see  and  feel  the  Eternal, 
the  Infinite,  the  Divine !  Look  at  the  sand- 
pile  and  what  is  going  on  there,  and  you  will 


The  Sand-Pile.  75 

find  enough  to  fill  a  dozen  leisure  hours  with 
pleasure,  and  profit  too.  Stop  thinking  about 
yourself  and  think  about  what  a  wonderful 
world  this  is  in  which  you  have  the  blessed 
privilege  of  living!" 

Being  thus  sternly  admonished,  I  turned  my 
eyes  to  the  sand-pile  which  had  been  left  by 
the  builders  of  the  new  house.  A  group  of 
children  had  been  inevitably  attracted  to  it. 
Was  there  ever  a  sand-pile  that  did  not  attract 
children  if  they  were  within  reach  of  it? 

One  sturdy  boy  of  ten,  with  sleeves  rolled 
to  the  armpits,  was  digging  at  one  side  of  the 
sand-pile,  evidently  intent  upon  enlarging  a 
hole  which  he  had  already  made  large  enough 
to  stand  in.  His  only  instrument  for  excava- 
tion was  an  old  tin  can  and  his  two  hands. 
He  loosened  the  damp  sand  with  his  tin  can 
and  then  scooped  it  out  with  his  hands.  The 
constant  bending  and  rising  caused  by  the 
digging  and  throwing  out  of  the  sand  had 
brought  rich  red  to  his  cheeks  and  a  sparkle 
to  his  eyes.  His  small  cap  was  pushed  far 
back  on  his  head,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
wiped  the  perspiration  off  his  face  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  blouse.  "In  the  sweat  of  thy 
brow  shalt  thou  eat  bread,"  I  thought.  "How 
6 


76  Misunderstood  Children. 

the  curse  of  old  Adam  has  been  changed  into 
the  play  of  Adam's  hundred-thousandth  or 
ten-hundred-thousandth  descendant !  The 
labits  of  generations  of  toilers  in  the  soil  have 
so  trained  the  muscles  of  the  body  that  they 
rejoice  in  the  labor  of  digging.  Ah !  is  that  the 
explanation  of  this  boy's  play?  No,  the 
brightness  of  that  face  comes  from  the  feeling 
of  triumphant  mastery  over  nature.  For 
countless  ages  man  has  grappled  with  the 
binding  despotism  of  nature,  has  struggled 
and  has  gained,  or  is  slowly  gaining,  the 
knowledge  which  gives  to  him  the  power  to 
use  all  her  forces  as  he  will.  It  is  this  divinely 
implanted  instinct  in  the  boy  that  makes  him 
dig  so  persistently  and  energetically  on  this 
warm  day.  Bless  him,  I  am  glad  he  has  a 
spot  where  he  can  dig  without  being  scolded 
for  spoiling  the  looks  of  the  back  yard !" 

That  other  boy  over  there  sprawling  lazily 
on  the  sand  with  his  legs  far  apart,  occasion- 
ally kicking  up  one  heel  and  then  the  other, 
is  idly  grasping  a  handful  of  sand,  and  just 
as  idly  letting  it  run  through  his  fingers.  He 
is  only  beginning,  as  it  were,  to  feel  a  dim 
consciousness  of  this  same  power  of  man  to 
transform  matter.  He  is  only  testing  its  form- 


The  Sand-Pile.  77 

ableness.  Even  that  is  being  listlessly  done. 
No  creative  impulse  is  driving  him  forward 
to  make  his  mark  in  the  world,  even  if  that 
mark  be,  at  present,  only  a  hole  in  a  sand-pile. 
I  wonder  how  much  his  indolent  ancestors 
are  to  blame  for  his  not  having  caught  up  in 
the  race  development  with  the  boy  who  is 
digging  the  hole.  I  wonder  how  much  the 
mother's  ignorance  of  how  to  prepare  whole- 
some food  has  to  do  with  his  lack  of  energy 
and  loss  of  vigorous  play.  I  wonder  if  pos- 
sibly some  deeper  sin  of  his  father  has  sapped 
the  springs  of  life  and  given  him  as  an  in- 
heritance a  feeble  constitution  or  a  weak  will. 
Anyhow,  he  is  losing  to-day's  enjoyment,  and 
will  probably  be  more  or  less  of  a  laggard 
through  life.  Heaven  help  the  child  who  does 
not  care  to  play  heartily!  Life  can  never 
make  up  for  that  loss ! 

What  of  this  third  boy,  who  is  standing 
there  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets 
and  is  giving  directions  in  a  tone  of  authority 
to  two  younger  boys?  They  are  busy  mold- 
ing first  one  thing  and  then  another  out  of  the 
moist  sand.  He  stands  coolly  looking  on, 
now  criticising,  now  encouraging  their  efforts, 
but  never  once  stooping  to  lend  a  hand  to  their 


78  Misunderstood  Children. 

work.  What  will  he  be?  A  critic?  always 
ready  to  find  fault  with  what  other  people  are 
trying  to  do,  but  never  himself  doing  anything 
worth  finding  fault  with?  Or,  is  he  a  born 
leader,  one  who  sees  statues  in  the  unchiseled 
block  of  marble,  farms  on  untilled  prairies, 
cities  rising  along  unbuilt  railroads?  Sure  it 
is  that  he  sees  results  more  quickly  than  the 
average  boy — can  "look  ahead,"  as  the  saying 
is.  In  how  far  is  his  training  to  be  held  ac- 
countable for  the  final  outcome  of  this  indi- 
cation of  talent.  Will  it  develop  into  cyni- 
cism or  into  leadership?  Can  the  sarcasm 
of  his  teacher  turn  his  power  downward,  or 
her  encouraging  smile  turn  it  upward?  Les- 
ser things  than  these  have  changed  men's 
lives. 

And  what  about  the  two  boys  who  are 
just  at  present  carrying  out  his  commands? 
Neither  of  them  seems  to  have  the  slightest 
desire  to  rebel  against  his  authority,  nor  does 
either  of  them  make  a  suggestion  as  to  the 
work  they  are  doing.  Are  they  in  the  stage  of 
hero  worship  ?  Or,  will  there  always  be  people 
without  ideas  of  their  own?  Is  there  ever  a 
mortal  born  without  some  original  genius?  I 
believe  not.  Each  one  of  us  has  some  message 


The  Sand-Pile.  79 

for  the  world,  some  notes  to  play  in  the  great 
orchestra  of  life.  How,  then,  is  this  origi- 
nality to  be  awakened?  In  how  far  are  chil- 
dren to  be  led  to  submit  to  a  leader?  With- 
out such  training  all  organized  effort  is  impos- 
sible. And  yet,  unless  a  child  is  allowed  to 
freely  exercise  his  creative  power,  how  is  he 
ever  to  become  conscious  of  it?  Is  not  play 
primarily  for  this  purpose?  A  score  of  such 
questions  rise  as  I  watch  the  two  patient 
little  laborers  toiling  away  at  the  command 
of  another. 

Here  comes  a  fat,  bull-necked  boy.  His 
low  brow  and  thick  lips  tell  how  near 
the  brute  he  is.  He  picks  up  a  handful  of 
sand  and  throws  it  at  the  two  little  fellows. 
It  comes  perilously  near  their  eyes,  but  they 
are  peaceful  citizens,  intent  upon  their  work, 
so  they  pay  no  attention  to  the  would-be 
brawler.  He  stoops,  picks  up  a  double  hand- 
ful of  sand  and  throws  it  into  their  faces,  this 
time  with  some  jeering  words.  He  is  a  born 
bully,  for  he  has  picked  out  the  two  smallest 
boys  to  taunt  and  torment.  Is  it  a  fight  he 
wants?  I  think  not,  a  bully  rarely  ever  wants 
to  fight.  He  is  anxious  to  show  his  power, 
and  his  contempt  for  steady,  honest  pursuits. 


80  Misunderstood  Children. 

The  group  of  boys  have  been  getting  along  too 
quietly  to  suit  him.  Again  he  throws  a  hand- 
ful of  sand  into  the  faces  of  the  two  little  un- 
derlings. They  cry  out.  He  laughs,  and  an- 
other taunt  accompanies  another  handful  of 
sand.  Suddenly,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
sand-pile  appears  a  tall  boy  in  a  red  sweater. 
A  few  hot  words  ensue.  I  cannot  hear  them, 
but  a  fight  is  on.  In  less  than  three  minutes 
the  bully  retreats,  bellowing,  and  breathing 
out  threats  of  dire  revenge.  The  tall  boy  goes 
back  to  the  other  side  of  the  sand-pile.  Here 
is  law,  authority,  military  force,  we  may  call 
it,  settling  the  cause  of  right  and  justice  when 
it  could  not  be  settled  without  force.  And 
then  peace  returns  and  the  mimic  industries 
go  forward.  Is  the  fighting  instinct  a  normal 
instinct  in  a  boy?  Will  war  always  be  neces- 
sary? Certain  it  is  that  as  long  as  there  are 
bullies  in  the  world  there  will  always  have  to 
be  big  boys  who  can  thrash  them  and  make 
them  behave.  But  is  there  no  way  by  means 
of  which  these  boastful  Goliaths  can  be  turned 
into  Saint  Christophers?  The  old  legend  tells 
us  that  St.  Christopher  had  once  been  a  giant 
in  the  service  of  the  devil,  but  the  thought  of 
the  Christ  changed  him  into  a  servant  of  the 


The  Sand-Pile.  81 

Cross.  Is  there  no  Christ-thought,  no  ideal 
that  can  be  brought  before  these  bull-necked 
offspring  of  ignorance  and  vice  that  will  stir 
within  them  some  better  desires?  Or  must 
they  always  be  thrashed  into  decent  regard 
for  other  people's  rights?  Has  anyone  ever 
established  a  school  for  bullies?  In  the  his- 
tory of  nations  they  are  always  thrashed.  Will 
any  Hague  Arbitration  Tribunal  bring  forth 
a  better  remedy? 

But  the  group  is  not  altogether  masculine. 
The  eternal  law  of  attraction  of  sex  comes 
here  too.  At  one  side,  somewhat  removed 
from  the  sand-pile,  are  two  little  girls  of  six 
and  seven.  They,  true  to  the  housewifely 
instincts  of  a  thousand  generations,  are  mak- 
ing sand  pies,  and  turning  them  on  to  a  long 
board,  giving  them  loving  little  pats  as  they 
do  so.  One  of  them  stops  now  and  then  on 
her  way  to  and  from  the  sand-pile  for  fresh 
supplies  of  sand  to  utter  a  word  or  two  of 
admiration  for  the  work  of  the  vigorous  hole- 
digger.  (I  wonder  if  her  presence  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  his  digging  so  manfully.) 
Another  of  the  "eternally  feminine"  element 
again  and  again  fills  a  small  basket  with  sand 


82  Misunderstood  Children. 

and  thriftily  carries  it  over  into  her  own  yard. 
And  so  the  play  goes  on.  Heigh-ho!  It  is 
six  o'clock!  I  am  no  longer  weary,  I  am 
rested. 


A  SHOP  SCENE. 


The  great  store  was  crowded  with  hurry- 
ing, jostling,  anxious  people,  each  one  intent 
upon  his  or  her  own  purchase,  regardless  of 
everyone  else.  I  stood  idly  waiting  for  my 
package,  which  I  wished  to  take  home  with 
me,  when  my  attention  was  attracted  to  the 
face  of  a  young  mother.  Any  keen  observer 
of  human  faces  can  always  tell  a  young 
mother.  There  is  an  expression  of  proud  and 
tender  humility  on  her  face,  especially  if  she 
has  with  her  that  marvelous  being — her  first 
child.  They  all  have  this  something  in  com- 
mon, be  they  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low.  I 
suppose  it  is  this  tender  beauty  shining 
through  the  plainest  faces  that  made  the 
old  masters  think  they  could  paint  the  Ma- 
donna— the  mother  of  God — for  there  is  in  a 
young  mother's  face  a  touch  of  that  far-off 
divine  holiness  which  suggests  angels  and  vast 
worlds  of  celestial  thoughts.  As  I  said,  they 
all  have  it,  though  some  young  mothers  ex- 
press it  in  a  tenderer,  more  refined  way  than 
do  others.    Some  even  allow  the  loud  notes  of 

83 


84  Misunderstood  Children. 

their  proud  emotions  to  blare  forth  like  a 
trumpet,  but  with  most  of  them  the  softer, 
more  sacred  emotions  of  mother-love,  remind 
one  of  the  muted  violins  in  the  vast  orchestra 
of  humanity.  It  is  the  loveliest  of  all  sounds 
to  one  who  can  hear  the  silent  music  of  the 
soul. 

This  particular  young  mother  was  one  of 
the  latter  class.  Her  fine-looking  young  hus- 
band was  with  her,  vigorously  pushing  their 
baby  boy's  perambulator  through  the 
crowded  aisle  of  the  store.  That  she  adored 
him  one  could  easily  see  by  the  way  she  looked 
up  at  him,  and  the  radiant  smile  that  lighted 
her  face  if  he  chanced  to  return  her  glance. 
Still  she  was  unaccustomed  to  having  anyone 
else  take  charge  of  baby's  perambulator,  so 
even  with  her  husband's  strong  hand  on  its 
handle  she  involuntarily  reached  out  her  own 
daintily  gloved  hand  to  steer  it  if  the  crowd 
opened  a  space  through  which  they  might 
pass,  and  ever  and  anon  her  head  bent  down 
unconsciously  to  see  if  her  young  princeling 
was  all  right. 

They  made  their  way  to  a  toy  counter  just 
opposite  to  the  one  against  which  I  was  idly 
leaning.     "Here  it  is!"  exclaimed  the  sweet, 


A  Shop  Scene.  85 

fresh  voice  of  the  young  mother.  "See,  dar- 
ling! See  the  pretty  pussy-cats."  This  to  the 
two-year-old  boy,  bending  lovingly  over  him, 
much  as  the  worshiping  angel  bent  over  the 
sleeping  Christ-child  in  the  pictures  by  Fra 
Angelica  or  Botticelli.  "Well,  my  son,"  said 
the  father,  "which  will  you  have,  a  pussy-cat 
or  a  doggie-dog?"  The  tone  was  an  inimit- 
able blending  of  proud  comradeship  with  his 
young  son  and  fond  fatherly  love  for  his 
baby  boy.  "Oh,  dad-dad,  dad-dad!"  cried 
the  little  fellow,  raising  his  body  and  stretch- 
ing up  that  he  might  the  better  observe  the 
array  of  animal  toys  in  the  showcase.  "Oh, 
dad-dad  !"  he  repeated  in  affectionate  tones  of 
excited  pleasure.  "Well,  which  shall  it  be,  my 
boy?"  said  the  father,  "a  pussy-cat?"  "Puz- 
ze-kad,  puzze-kad !"  exclaimed  the  child,  ex- 
tending both  arms  toward  the  coveted  treas- 
ure. "Wait  a  minute,  my  son,"  said  the 
father,  gravely,  although  his  eyes  were  shin- 
ing with  the  pleasure  of  the  child,  "Think  a 
bit.  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  doggie-dog?" 
pointing  to  a  spotted  tin  dog  in  the  showcase. 
"A  doggie-dog,  dad-dad !"  gurgled  the  child, 
turning  his  eyes  and  outstretching  his  hands 
toward    the    particular    toy    dog   which    the 


86  Misunderstood  Children. 

father  had  pointed  out.  The  father  laughed 
a  gleeful,  boyish  laugh  as  he  turned  toward 
his  young  wife  to  see  if  she  were  observing 
how  completely  he  could  control  his  son's  at- 
tention and  interest.  I  wondered  if  he  faintly 
realized  what  a  responsibility  that  power  laid 
upon  him.  Her  look  of  adoration  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  for  he  turned  again  to  the  child. 
"Look  here,  young  man,"  he  said,  "you  want 
to  make  up  your  mind  as  to  what  you  want, 
and  then  stick  to  it."  (Ah,  me  !  there  was  such 
fatherly  pride  in  this  admonition,  such  a  reve- 
lation of  the  day-dreams  of  what  he  wanted 
his  son  and  heir  to  become.)  "Now,  then, 
which  shall  it  be,  the  pussy-cat  or  the  dog- 
gie-dog?" "Oh,  dad-dad!  Gim'me,  gim'me 
puzze-kad,  gim'me,  gim'me  doggie-dog!"  and 
the  young  monarch  of  all  he  had  ever  sur- 
veyed reached  out  both  hands  to  his  father. 
"Here,  here,  youngster,  you  will  break  me  if 
you  don't  look  out,"  cried  the  father  in  mock 
dismay.  "Give  me  the  dog,"  said  he,  turning 
to  the  saleswoman,  who  stood  waiting  with  a 
bored  expression  upon  her  face.  Why 
couldn't  she  see  that  here  was  something 
sweeter  than  green  fields  and  fresher  than 
pure  air?    Had  the  mother  love  in  her  heart 


A  Shop  Scene.  87 

died  of  starvation?  Had  she  killed  it  by  an 
artificial  life  of  false  excitements  and  selfish 
indulgences?  If  she  would  but  realize  it, 
every  day  there  was  passing  before  her  eyes  a 
panorama  of  human  joys  and  sorrows  that 
was  far  more  thrilling  than  the  most  thrilling 
novel  could  tell  or  stage-set  drama  could  por- 
tray. 

The  dog  was  nonchalantly  handed  out  and 
paid  for.  As  it  reached  the  child's  hands  he 
uttered  a  prolonged  "Oh-h-h"  of  ecstacy,  and 
the  father  involuntarily  stooped  down  and 
kissed  the  little  forehead  while  waiting  for  his 
change. 

The  child  had  time  to  look  at  his  new  treas- 
ure as  they  waited,  and  then  to  hold  it  out 
toward  another  child,  a  year  or  two  older 
than  himself,  who  was  being  dragged  along  by 
her  mother.  "See,  see  dad-dad's  doggie," 
cried  the  boy,  as  he  held  his  treasure  toward 
the  little  girl.  The  child  thus  appealed  to  hesi- 
tated, smiled  and  almost  stopped.  His  joyful 
desire  to  share  his  pleasure  with  her  was  too 
great  to  be  resisted.  "Come  along!  What 
are  you  stopping  for?"  exclaimed  the  mother, 
as  she  gave  her  a  jerk.  Then  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  boy  with  his  toy  outstretched  in  his 


88  Misunderstood  Children. 

* 

hand.  She  frowned  and  gave  her  child  an- 
other jerk,  "Come  along!  You  don't  know 
that  child."  And  she  hurried  on.  The  boy- 
looked  astonished  and  instinctively  turned  his 
eyes,  questioningly  toward  his  father.  "It's 
all  right,  my  son.  Father  will  look  at  it." 
And  the  man  stooped  and  again  kissed  the 
forehead  of  the  child.  "Oh,  dad-dad!"  joy- 
fully exclaimed  the  child,  his  peace  of  mind 
being  once  more  restored,  "Kiss  de  doggie!" 
The  father  stooped  again  and  touched  his  lips 
to  the  toy. 

The  change  for  which  they  had  been  wait- 
ing came,  and  in  a  moment  more  they  moved 
on.  The  crowd  closed  in  and  hid  them  from 
my  sight,  but  once  again  I  heard  the  sweet, 
childish  voice  bubbling  over  with  happiness 
further  down  the  aisle,  exclaiming,  "Dad-dad, 
Kiss  de  doggie !" 

The  whole  of  this  little  domestic  drama  of 
one  act  took  place  in  less  than  five  minutes, 
but  it  remained  in  my  heart  all  day,  and  I 
found  myself  exclaiming,  "Thank  God  for  lit- 
tle children,  they  are  the  salvation  of  the 
race !"  What  other  power  on  earth  could 
have  made  that  well-dressed,  well-groomed, 
self-satisfied  man  stoop  down  and  kiss  a  little 


A  Shop  Scene.  89 

tin  dog  In  the  presence  of  unnumbered  wit- 
nesses? And  yet,  I  feel  sure,  he  was  a  better 
man  for  having  thus  shared  in  his  child's  joy. 
Then  came,  like  a  shadow  over  a  sunlit  land- 
scape, the  thought  of  that  other  child's 
mother.  Would  she  ever  realize  that  she  was 
robbing  both  herself  and  her  child  of  what  is 
more  precious  than  diamonds  or  rubies? 


JACK  AND  THE  ALLEY  BOYS. 


Jack  was  arrested  yesterday!  Our  dear, 
dear,  little  Jack! 

He  fell  into  company  with  some  older  boys 
and  with  them  indulged  in  the  hilarity  of 
throwing  stones  at  some  little  girls.  Of  course 
I  know  it  wasn't  right  for  Jack  to  throw 
stones  at  girls.  But  then  he  is  only  seven 
years  old,  and  who  has  ever  taught  him  that 
it  is  unmanly  to  throw  stones  at  creatures 
weaker  than  himself?  And  Jack  is  beginning 
to  want  to  do  manly  things.  His  baby  days 
are  over.  Why  is  it  so  hard  for  a  mother  to 
realize  that  her  boy  is  no  longer  her  baby?  As 
for  Jack's  father,  he  was  too  busy  making 
money  to  have  any  time  to  give  to  his  son. 
Why,  he  hardly  had  time  to  read  the  daily 
newspapers;  what  time  could  he,  a  rising 
young  lawyer,  give  to  talk  with  the  boy?  He 
bought  him  nice  clothes  and  expected  to  put 
him  through  college  by  and  by.  What  more 
could  be  expected  of  a  busy  father? 

So  Jack  had  to  look  elsewhere  for  "manly" 
companionship.    Naturally  enough,  he  turned 

90 


Jack  and  the  Alley  Boys.  91 

to  the  ten  and  twelve-year-old  boys  who 
haunted  the  alley  just  back  of  his  home. 
They  allowed  him  to  play  mumbley-peg  for 
pennies,  and  two  of  them  could  smoke  real 
cigar  stumps  without  getting  sick  at  the 
stomach.  Jack  couldn't.  He  tried  it  and 
the  big  boys  laughed  at  him  when  he  grew 
pale  and  sick.  Their  greatest  accomplishment 
in  Jack's  eyes  was  that  they  could  swear,  oh, 
such  oaths  that  it  made  him  tremble  to  hear 
them.  So  when  the  big  boys  began  throwing 
stones  at  the  prim  young  misses  who  stuck  out 
their  tongues  at  them,  Jack  began  throwing 
stones  too.  Why  shouldn't  he?  The  big  boys 
were  his  heroes.  They  even  called  him  "kid" 
and  permitted  him  to  squat  down  behind  the 
fence  with  them  and  listen  to  their  talk.  Of 
course  Jack  could  not  understand  all  that  they 
said,  for  he  had  lived  heretofore  in  his  home 
with  his  mamma  and  had  never  been  allowed 
to  see  much  of  other  children;  besides  his 
mamma  preferred  his  playing  with  girls,  when 
he  did  play  with  other  children.  They  made 
less  noise  than  boys.  It  was  only  of  late  that 
Jack  had  been  allowed  to  go  with  "the  fel- 
lows." Therefore,  he  didn't  know  exactly 
why  the  big  boys  called  each  other  "Capt."  or 

7 


92  Misunderstood  Children. 

"Shanks"  or  "Slim"  when  their  real  names 
were  Joe  and  Bill  and  Tom.  But  when  they 
began  calling  him  "Kid"  he  understood  that 
these  were  secret  names  and  that  they  meant 
some  sort  of  distinction.  Just  what  that  dis- 
tinction was  he  could  not  have  told,  but  it 
didn't  matter  much.  His  new  name  meant 
that  he  was  one  of  them  now.  When  he  heard 
them  speak  contemptuously  of  the  policeman 
as  "an  old  cop"  his  heart  thrilled  within  him. 
So  when  the  big  boys  began  to  throw  stones 
Jack  threw  stones  too.  He  could  do  that 
much,  anyhow,  even  if  he  could  not  yet  talk 
the  wonderful  dialect  of  alley  slang. 

But  the  irascible  old  gentleman  who  lived 
next  door  telephoned  to  the  police  to  come ! 
Why  couldn't  he  have  gone  out  and  reasoned 
with  the  boys  in  a  straightforward,  manly 
way?  Or,  better  still,  why  couldn't  he  have 
hired  them  to  do  some  odd  job  of  work  for 
him  by  way  of  turning  their  surplus  energies 
into  a  constructive  activity?  His  yard  needed 
raking  over,  his  wood-pile  needed  straighten- 
ing, and  his  own  heart  needed  warming. 
I  wonder  if  he  was  ever  a  little  boy,  or  if  he 
had  forgotten  how  when  seven  years  old  he 
had  loved  to  do  as  the  big  boys  did.    Well, 


Jack  and  The  Alley  Boys.  93 

he  acted  as  if  he  had  never  been  a  boy,  and 
his  angry  telephone  message  brought  two  big 
burly  policemen  into  our  alley.  And  before 
the  boys  knew  it  they  were  all  four  "nabbed" 
and  were  being  marched  off  to  the  police 
station. 

To  be  sure,  they  were  merely  talked  to  by 
the  big  police  officer  in  charge  of  the  station, 
and  were  dismissed  with  a  warning  that  a 
second  arrest  would  mean  a  "lock-up." 

But  the  disgrace  in  our  highly  respectable 
neighborhood  was  just  as  great  as  if  they  had 
already  been  locked  up,  and  the  news  had 
spread  like  wild-fire,  "Jack  Halloway  had 
been  arrested!"  And  we  knew  only  too  well 
that  it  would  be  on  the  tongue  of  every  school 
child  before  a  week  had  passed,  and  Jack 
would  be  branded  by  these  fierce  little  Phari- 
sees as  a  bad  boy. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  exclaimed  Gertrude 
as  she  paced  nervously  up  and  down  the  floor. 
"Think  of  our  Jack  being  called  'a  jail-bird,' 
'a  coppe-catch' — 'a  thug,'  just  as  likely  as  not ! 
There  will  be  a  dozen  odious  names  invented 
or  imported  before  to-morrow  night,"  she 
continued.  "And  just  think  of  our  dear,  sen- 
sitive Jack's  having  to  endure  it  all.  What 
can  we  do?" 


94  Misunderstood  Children. 

I  pretended  to  go  on  with  my  writing  and 
said  nothing.  What  could  I  say?  I  knew 
even  better  than  she  the  mischief  that  had 
been  done.  I  was  older  and  far  back  in  the 
past  I  had  had  an  experience  which  sickened 
me  even  yet  whenever  I  recalled  it,  although 
twenty  years  had  come  and  gone  since  that 
dark  day  when  another  boy  with  just  such 
earnest  dark  eyes  as  Jack's  had  been  branded 
for  a  childish  sin!  And  there  had  been  no 
soul  near  him  wise  enough  to  save  him ! 

"We  must  do  something!"  Gertrude  cried, 
suddenly  stopping  in  front  of  me.  "Yes,"  I 
replied,  "But  it  will  take  time.  I  will  try  to 
find  a  chance  to  talk  with  Jack's  father  about 
him."  "What  good  will  that  do,"  she  ex- 
claimed, petulantly.  "He  will  merely  give  you 
a  well-bred  stare  and  manage  to  let  you  know 
that  he  considers  you  a  meddlesome  woman ! 
No,  no,  no,  you  can  never  reach  his  father! 
It  is  Jack  himself  we  must  get  hold  of!" 

"Yes,  we'll  try,"  I  answered,  still  mechanic- 
ally moving  my  pen  across  the  page.  I  did 
not  want  even  Gertrude  to  know  how  the  old 
wound  was  bleeding.  I  knew  that  she  had 
spoken  wisely — we  must  get  hold  of  Jack,  our 
dear,  loving-hearted,  thoughtless  Jack!  What 


Jack  and  The  Alley  Boys.  95 

could  we  two  spinsters  do  when  neither  his 
father  nor  mother  understood  him  nor  helped 
him?  But  we  could  try — there  was  always 
some  comfort  in  that — we  could  try. 

That  evening  Jack's  young  mother,  a 
blond-haired  young  creature  with  a  charming 
dimple  in  her  chin  and  a  pretty  pout  on  her 
red  lips,  came  in  and  said  she  wanted  to  have 
"a  real  talk"  with  me.  So  Gertrude  disap- 
peared while  Jack's  child-mother  and  I  sat  in 
the  gathering  twilight  and  talked  about  Jack, 
of  course. 

She  said  he  puzzled  her;  she  didn't  see  why 
he  wanted  to  go  with  those  horrid  Sloam  boys. 
She  had  whipped  him  twice  for  going  with 
them,  and  then  he  had  lied  to  her  about  being 
with  them  the  next  time  she  questioned  him ! 
What  more  could  she  do?  His  father  would 
be  "horrid  mad"  with  Jack  when  he  heard 
about  the  arrest.  No,  of  course  she  hadn't 
told  him  about  it  yet.  She  had  shut  Jack  up- 
stairs in  his  room  and  would  not  let  him  have 
any  supper.  Hadn't  she  done  right?  This 
last  was  said  with  tears  brimming  in  her  eyes. 
Perhaps  she  had  read  some  disapproval  in  my 
face.  I  don't  know.  "What  more  can  I  do  ?" 
she  asked.    "Shall  I  tie  him  up  ?"    Her  pretty 


g6  Misunderstood  Children. 

mouth  trembled  now,  and  the  tears  dropped 
on  her  clasped  hands.  "I  don't  see  why  Jack 
can't  be  satisfied  with  his  toys  and  his  picture 
book,"  she  continued;  he  used  to  like  them 
and  to  play  with  me  in  his  nursery.  But  now 
nothing  seems  to  satisfy  him  but  to  be  with 
those  horrid  Sloam  boys."  Then  she  wished 
the  Sloam  boys  would  move  out  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, or  that  she  could  persuade  Jack's 
father  to  sell  their  home  and  move  into  a 
neighborhood  where  there  were  no  bad  boys. 
Her  helplessness  appealed  to  me.  I  tried  to 
explain  to  her  that  Jack  was  no  longer  a  little 
child;  he  was  a  boy  now,  and  needed  a  larger 
world  than  his  nursery  and  the  back  yard: 
that  he  was  longing  for  larger  and  more 
varied  experiences,  and  that  this  longing  was 
perfectly  natural,  in  fact,  it  would  show  a  sad 
lack  of  mental  growth  if  he  did  not  want  a 
larger  world. 

She  gazed  at  me  with  big,  childish  eyes 
filled  with  surprise.  Seeing  that  she  did  not 
understand  my  generalities,  I  began  to  par- 
ticularize. "I  would  suggest,"  I  continued, 
"that  you  so  arrange  your  housework  that 
after  school  on  pleasant  days  you  could  go 
with  Jack  for  a  long  walk,  or  take  a  tramp  to 


Jack  and  The  Alley  Boys.  97 

some  unfamiliar  locality  or  a  street  car  ride  to 
the  next  suburb.  Send  him  on  errands  to  the 
grocery  or  the  dry  goods  store,"  I  added. 
"Take  him  into  the  city  with  you  on  Satur- 
days, occasionally.  Get  his  father  to  take  him 
out  on  Sunday  afternoons.  In  such  ways  en- 
large his  little  world  yourselves,  so  that  he 
will  not  seek  the  Sloam  boys  for  a  change  or 
new  experience.  "Perhaps  it  might  be  well," 
I  suggested,  "to  invite  some  of  his  nice  school- 
mates in  to  take  tea  with  you.  This  would 
probably  result  in  his  being  invited  to  eat  in 
some  of  their  homes.  This,  too,  would  help 
to  satisfy  his  hunger  for  new  experiences." 
We  talked  on  for  a  while  longer.  When  she 
rose  to  go  I  followed  her  to  the  door.  Evi- 
dently Jack  had  defied  imprisonment.  I  saw 
him  and  Gertrude  coming  across  the  lot,  both 
warm  and  flushed  by  their  rapid  walk.  They 
were  chatting  merrily,  and  evidently  were 
just  returning  from  one  of  their  long  walks 
together. 

To-day  is  Saturday,  and  just  after  our  noon 
meal  I  chanced  to  see  Jack  dressed  in  his  best 
suit  with  a  stiff  collar  and  a  big  bow  necktie 
(how  he  hates  those  babyish  big  bows) ,  start- 
ing from  his  home,  tugging  in  a  sullen  sort  of 


98  Misunderstood  Children. 

a  way  at  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  into  which  he 
was  striving  to  thrust  his  hands.  Following  a 
short  distance  behind  him  were  his  father  and 
mother,  both  dressed  as  for  an  entertainment. 
All  three  seemed  out  of  mood  and  in  a 
hurry  of  unpleasant  excitement.  As  they  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station 
I  surmised  that  they  were  going  to  town,  and 
the  thought  of  them  dropped  out  of  my  mind. 

To-night,  however,  Jack's  mother  came  in 
to  see  me  in  quite  a  flutter  of  pleasure.  She 
said  she  had  told  Jack's  father  what  I  had 
said  about  Jack  needing  a  change.  "And,"  she 
added,  triumphantly,  "he  took  Jack  and  me  to 
a  vaudeville  show  this  afternoon,  and  he  has 
promised  to  take  us,  or  to  send  us,  every  Sat- 
urday !    Won't  that  be  fine." 

Gertrude  was  right,  we  must  get  hold  of 
Jack  himself ! 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCARLET  COAT. 


One  bright,  frosty  morning,  when  the  air 
was  full  of  life-giving  energy,  I  chanced  to  be 
crossing  one  of  the  small  parks  which  the  wis- 
dom of  the  twentieth  century  has  planted  in 
our  congested  city  districts.  Just  in  front  of 
me  walked  a  young  mother  and  her  two-year- 
old  son.  I  judged  that  this  was  her  first  child 
from  the  fact  that,  although  she  herself  was 
quite  plainly  dressed,  the  boy  was  gorgeously 
attired  in  a  scarlet  coat,  white  astrakhan  cap, 
white  cloth  leggins  and  white  mittens. 

Young  mothers  frequently  feel  that  they 
must  give  vent  to  their  proud  joy  of  owner- 
ship by  arraying  their  offspring  in  the  most 
expensive  clothing  they  can  possibly  afford. 
Their  sacrifice  of  girlish  vanity  and  innocent 
enough  desire  to  be  charmingly  dressed  them- 
selves, is  often  touching  proof  of  the  self-for- 
getting nature  of  maternal  love,  although  to 
the  student  of  childhood  this  is  a  sadly  mis- 
taken way  to  show  it. 

Near  the  center  of  the  park  was  a  thicket 
or  cluster  of  barberry  bushes.    The  little  fel- 

99 


ioo  Misunderstood  Children. 

low  let  go  of  his  mother's  hand,  and,  running 
forward,  parted  two  of  the  bushes  and  peered 
in.  It  was  evidently  a  new  phase  of  nature 
to  him,  a  field  of  discovery !  For  a  moment  he 
hesitated  and  looked  back  toward  his  mother, 
then  forward  into  the  thicket.  The  lure  of 
the  unknown  was  too  great  to  be  resisted. 
He  parted  the  bushes  and  stepped  in  among 
them,  at  first  timidly,  but  as  the  excitement  of 
the  adventure  became  intoxicating  he  stead- 
ily pushed  farther  and  farther  into  the 
brush,  looking  up  now  and  then  at  the  taller 
ones,  whose  spreading  branches  met  over  his 
head.  This  was,  indeed,  an  adventure  worth 
having. 

"No,  no,  my  boy,"  called  the  mother,  as 
she  quickened  her  steps.  "Come  out  of  those 
bushes !"  But  the  boy  pushed  farther  in. 
Here  was  a  new  experience  in  his  limited 
world.  Hitherto  he  had  been  a  "sidewalk 
child,"  and  had  trodden  beaten  paths.  This 
was  evident  from  the  timidity  which  he  had 
shown  when  he  first  ventured  into  the  thicket. 
But  the  eager  haste  with  which  he  now  pushed 
branch  after  branch  aside  and  the  steady  de- 
termination with  which  he  squeezed  his  chub- 
by body  between  close-growing  bushes  showed 


The  Boy  and  The  Scarlet  Coat.       101 

that  all  the  pioneer  instincts  of  his  ancestors 
were  awakened.  "Did  you  not  hear  me, 
Ned?"  called  his  mother.  "Come  out  of  those 
bushes,  they  will  dirty  your  clothes."  Alas! 
alas !  how  many  times  have  fine  clothes 
checked  the  spirit  of  adventure  !  One  has  but 
to  recall  how  the  wise  old  Solon  advised  the 
Persian  general  not  to  kill  off  the  young  men 
of  a  province  which  he  had  conquered,  but  to 
dress  them  in  soft  silk  and  fine  linen  and  thus 
enervate  them,  and  they  would  not  want  to 
throw  off  his  tyrannous  yoke. 

However,  my  two-year-old  had  evidently 
come  of  sturdier  stock.  The  appeal  to  his 
supposed  interest  in  his  scarlet  coat  and  white 
cloth  leggins  was  of  no  avail.  The  young 
mother  had  to  enter  the  thicket  and  drag  him 
back  to  the  beaten  path.  As  she  vigorously 
brushed  the  precious  coat,  she  exclaimed, 
"You  naughty,  naughty  boy !  See  how  you 
have  dirtied  your  clothes !  Just  look  at  your 
coat  with  those  dry  leaves  stuck  all  over  it!" 
No  mention  was  made  of  any  other  cause  for 
her  irritation  than  this, — that  his  clothes,  for 
which  he  was  not  in  the  least  responsible,  had 
been  slightly  soiled  by  contact  with  the  bar- 
berry bushes.  How  I  longed  to  have  a  game 


102  Misunderstood  Children. 

of  hide-and-seek  with  him  in  those  same 
bushes;  to  see  his  eyes  dance,  and  hear  his 
shout  of  delight  when  he  discovered  me;  to 
feel  the  growing  consciousness  of  selfhood 
which  would  come  to  him  as  he  hid  from  me ; 
and  the  quickened  social  instinct  as  he  would 
rush  out  of  hiding  and  reunite  himself  with 
me  !  But — ah,  me — what  would  have  been 
the  condition  of  the  scarlet  coat  and  the  white 
cloth  leggins  at  the  end  of  the  romp  !  And  yet, 
I  doubt  not  that  the  young  mother  loved  her 
boy  a  thousand  times  more  than  I  ever  could 
have  loved  him.  The  trouble  was  she  showed 
her  love  through  outer  adornment  of  his  body 
instead  of  helping  the  inner  development  of 
power  to  master  each  new  condition  which  life 
presented. 

The  two  passed  on.  The  sunlight  on  the 
frost-covered  grass  of  the  park  next  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  youngster.  Again  he 
dropped  his  mother's  hand  as  the  "touch- 
hunger"  common  to  all  children  called  out  for 
satisfaction.  He  stepped  over  on  to  the  frost 
field,  and  stooping,  touched  it  with  his  hand. 
The  glitter  and  sparkle  vanished!  Here  was 
a  mystery,  indeed !  He  stood  up,  looking  puz- 
zled and  perplexed,  then  the  "touch-hunger" 


The  Boy  and  The  Scarlet  Coat.       103 

called  again  for  testimony,  and,  bending  over 
once  more,  he  passed  his  small  white  mitten 
over  the  glittering  specks  of  frost.  As  fast 
as  they  disappeared  he  brushed  a  new  patch 
of  grass.  Here,  indeed,  was  an  evidence  of  his 
power  over  nature!  "Come  off  that  grass, 
you  little  nuisance,"  called  his  mother.  "See  1 
see!"  answered  the  child  excitedly,  and  he 
brushed  away  more  of  the  sparkling  white. 
"That's  nothing  but  frost,"  said  the  mother. 
"Come  along,  you  are  dirtying  your  nice 
gloves." 

The  contempt  in  her  tone  took  the  glory 
out  of  the  frost  world.  What  other  standard 
of  the  beauty  or  of  the  mystery  of  nature 
could  he  have  than  hers?  He  had  felt  the  ap- 
peal of  the  frost-covered  ground,  but  she  had 
spoken  in  derision  of  it,  so  the  little  fellow  re- 
turned to  her  side.  Perhaps  some  day  she 
would  sigh  because  her  boy  did  not  show  any 
love  for  nature,  and  would  wonder  why  he 
preferred  the  excitement  of  the  city  streets  to 
a  day  in  the  woods. 

The  sharp  frost  of  the  night  had  scattered 
a  number  of  willow  twigs  on  the  pathway. 
The  child  stooped  and  picked  up  one  of  them. 
Here  was  new  material  for  him  to  experiment 


104  Misunderstood  Children. 

with.  He  began  bending  it  back  and  forth. 
Elasticity  was  now  revealing  itself  to  his 
young  mind.  "Throw  that  dirty  stick  away," 
said  the  young  mother.  But  a  stronger  com- 
mand than  hers  was  telling  him  to  find  out  just 
how  far  this  willow  twig  would  bend.  It  was 
the  race-instinct,  the  same  that  had  brought 
about  man's  first  mastery  over  wood.  So  the 
boy  did  not  obey  her.  She  took  the  twig  out  of 
his  hand  and  tossed  it  away,  as  she  once  more 
brushed  his  clothes,  saying  as  she  did  so, 
"What  shall  I  do  with  you!  You  seem  de- 
termined to  spoil  your  pretty  clothes !  Now 
see  if  you  can't  walk  along  like  a  nice,  clean 
little  boy." 

Silently  I  mused  as  I  walked  on.  I  won- 
dered what  that  mother  would  have  thought 
had  I  said  to  her,  "Madam,  why  do  you  value 
your  child's  clothing  more  than  his  heart's 
glow  or  the  quickening  which  nature  was  try- 
ing to  give  to  his  mind?  You  are  doing  that 
which  is  worse  than  stifling  his  body,  you  are 
stifling  his  inner  life." 


KATIE  MacMAHON. 


When  1  first  moved  into  the  neighborhood, 
the  large,  broad-chested  charwoman  who 
helped  me  to  transform  the  chaos  of  moving 
into  the  cosmos  of  home  informed  me  that  my 
next-door  neighbor's  name  was  Miss  Dorothy- 
Duncan;  that  she  was  "a  real  nice  lady,"  but 
that  she  "enjoyed  ill-health  most  of  the  time," 
and  so  did  not  go  out  much. 

The  next  morning  I  chanced  to  see  Miss 
Duncan  as  she  stood  on  her  porch,  fastening 
into  the  proper  place  some  stray  branches  of 
the  wistaria  vine  which  the  wind  had  dislodged 
the  night  before.  She  was  tall  and  sparely 
built.  Her  hair  was  iron  gray,  and,  although 
her  head  was  turned  from  me,  I  judged  from 
her  thin  neck  and  colorless  ear  that  her  face 
was  thin  and  pale.  Over  her  shoulders  she 
wore  a  small  white  shawl.  There  is  perhaps 
no  better  evidence  of  physical  vigor  or  lack 
of  vigor  than  the  pose  of  chest  and  shoulders; 
and  her  profile  showed  relaxed  shoulders,  that 
meant  depressed  chest,  i.  e.,  ill-health. 

I  sighed  involuntarily  as  I  thought,  "Poor 
thing,  another  one  of  the  left-overs."  Alone  in 

105 


106  Misunderstood  Children. 

the  world,  with  old  age  fast  approaching  and 
ill-health  already  fastened  upon  her.  In- 
stinctively I  began  to  wonder  to  how  great  an 
extent  I  would  have  to  be  taxed  by  listening  to 
accounts  of  her  "bad  nights" — I  was  sure 
she  had  plenty  of  bad  nights — and  was  rap- 
idly making  an  estimate  of  how  much  of  my 
precious  time  would  have  to  be  consumed  in 
giving  courteous  attention  to  her  detailed  ac- 
counts of  aches  and  ailments. 

I  had  moved  to  the  suburbs  to  get  more  time 
for  study  and  writing,  but  of  course  I  knew 
one  could  not  utterly  ignore  one's  neighbors 
in  a  suburb  as  in  the  social  isolation  of  a  great 
city.  In  fact,  if  the  truth  be  told,  I  had  felt 
the  barrenness  of  my  city  life  and  had  real- 
ized that  I  was  becoming  dehumanized  by  it, 
and  was  counting  on  neighbors  as  one  of  the 
assets  to  be  gained  by  moving  out  to  where 
air  and  sunshine  were  not  too  expensive  to  be 
indulged  in  by  people  of  modest  means.  Still, 
I  had  not  planned  for  recitals  of  the  torture 
of  neuralgia,  the  pangs  of  rheumatism  or  the 
melancholy  forebodings  caused  by  indiges- 
tion. I  was  not  altogether  heartless,  but  I 
had  counted  on  neighbors  as  a  recreation,  not 
an  added  care. 


Katie  MacMahon.  107 

Just  at  that  moment  Miss  Dorothy  Duncan 
turned  her  face  toward  me,  and  in  an  instant  I 
realized  that  she  enjoyed  something,  if  not  ill- 
health,  then  something  else,  which  was  as 
ever-present  as  was  her  ill-health.  I  had  sur- 
mised correctly;  her  face  was  thin  and  lack- 
ing color — but  her  eyes !  I  had  not  thought 
of  what  kind  of  eyes  she  might  have.  They 
were  deep  blue  eyes,  fringed  with  long  black 
lashes,  but  it  was  their  expression  of  perfect 
peace  which  told  of  the  rich,  silent  soul-life 
within  this  frail  body  that  made  them  so  at- 
tractive to  me.  I  have  never  seen  such  eyes 
on  any  other  human  being.  They  said  so 
much,  and  yet  gave  you  the  same  feeling  that 
comes  when  one  views  the  vast  aerial  perspec- 
tive of  far-extended  prairies.  They  seemed 
to  hold  in  reserve  so  much  more  than 
they  expressed.  Years  afterward  I  learned 
through  what  suffering  and  what  struggle 
had  been  born  the  peace  that  made  her 
eyes  so  wonderful.  She  smiled  and  bowed 
slightly,  and,  although  her  smile  was  sweet 
and  gentle  and  lighted  up  her  face  as  does 
a  soft  afterglow  which  sometimes  follows  a 
fine  sunset,  it,  like  everything  else  about  her, 
was  secondary  to  those  strong  yet  tender, 
8 


io8  Misunderstood  Children. 

far-seeing  eyes.  When  later  on  I  heard  her 
speak  I  found  that  her  voice,  like  her  smile, 
was  sweet  and  gentle,  low  in  tone,  yet  with 
the  distinct  enunciation  that  marks  well- 
bred  people.  As  yet  I  know  nothing  of 
her  voice,  nothing  of  her  past  training;  but  I 
looked  into  those  deep,  beautiful  eyes  and, — 
I  may  as  well  confess  it,  I  fell  head-over- 
ears  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot.  I  after- 
ward found  out  that  plenty  of  other  people 
had  already  done  the  same  thing,  and  many 
more  did  it  in  the  years  that  followed,  long 
beautiful  years  in  which  I  learned  to  count  as 
my  greatest  blessing  the  fact  that  Dorothy 
Duncan  was  my  next-door  neighbor  and  my 
friend.  One  of  greatest  charms  was  that  she 
joined  a  rare  inner  culture  with  an  almost 
childish  enjoyment  of  the  common  every-day 
things  of  life.  The  ordinary  blossoms  of 
June-time  became  miracles  when  she  called 
your  attention  to  the  richness  of  their  color  or 
the  softness  of  their  texture.  The  activities  of 
an  ant-hill  in  the  garden  walk  became  a  con- 
suming drama  if  she  leaned  over  it  with  you. 
The  fretwork  of  shadows  which  the  street- 
lamp  caused  the  trees  to  cast  upon  the  porch 
floor  became  as  fascinating  as  Saracenic  carv- 


Katie  MacMahon.  109 

ings  if  she  chanced  to  sit  beside  you,  and  as  to 
sunsets,  they  were  as  much  enjoyed  as  great 
orchestral  performances  if  she  were  with  you 
when  the  heavens  played  their  mighty  sym- 
phony of  color.  Yet  she  never  wearied  you 
with  these  things,  she  simply  lent  you  her 
eyes  and  you  saw  undreamed-of  beauty  all 
about  you.  You  might  glance  through  the 
morning  paper  and  throw  it  down  with  an 
exclamation  of  disgust  because  its  headlines 
told  only  of  the  riot  of  lust  and  greed  or  the 
trickery  of  avarice,  or  the  selfish  vanity  of 
some  social  set  seeking  notoriety ;  and  ten  min- 
utes later  she  would  stir  you  with  the  account 
of  some  generosity  of  wealth  or  some  deed 
of  bravery  which  that  same  paper  had  given, 
or  she  would  have  you  laughing  over  the  un- 
conscious humor  of  some  misfit  announcement 
that  had  escaped  your  notice,  or  before  you 
knew  it  she  would  have  you  discussing  the 
leading  editorial.  She  was  merely  lending 
you  the  quickness  of  her  wits,  yet  she  was 
never  sparkling,  rarely  ever  what  might  be 
called  vivacious,  although  her  sense  of  humor 
was  abundant. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  her  interest  in 
the  people  about  her  was  greater  than  her  in- 


no  Misunderstood  Children. 

terest  in  the  things  by  which  she  was  sur- 
rounded. She  was  the  chief  friend,  adviser 
and  helper  of  every  individual  in  the  neigh- 
borhood; yet  she  was  never  meddlesome,  nev- 
er prying.  Others  came  to  her  with  their  joys 
and  their  sorrows;  she  did  not  go  to  them. 
But  her  sympathy  never  failed,  and  each  one 
knew  that  his  or  her  confidence  was  a  sacred 
trust  so  far  as  Miss  Dorothy  Duncan  was 
concerned.  Mothers  talked  over  their  prob- 
lems with  her,  and  many  a  child  went  to  her 
with  its  childish  doubts  and  perplexities. 

I  believe,  after  all,  her  strongest  point  was 
her  love  of  children  and  her  beautiful  way  of 
dealing  with  them.  Somehow  she  seemed  al- 
ways to  expect  them  to  be  their  best  and  al- 
ways treated  them  as  if  they  were  little  gentle- 
men and  ladies,  not  little  prigs,  but  with  man- 
ners enough  not  to  quarrel  or  be  selfish  when 
with  her,  and  somehow  they  usually  lived  up 
to  her  expectations.  She  gave  them  her  stand- 
ards of  conduct,  that  was  all.  They  were  ordi- 
nary children,  with  ordinary  faults,  but  some- 
how they  became  wonderfully  interesting 
specimens  of  humanity  when  she  was  with 
them.  She  loaned  you  her  imagination  if  you 
chanced  to  be  with  them  when  she  was  there, 


Katie  MacMahon.  Ill 

and  somehow  you  felt  that  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  an  ordinary  child.  John  and  Jack  and 
Harry  allured  you  into  the  study  of  their  in- 
dividuality, and  before  you  knew  it  you  were 
puzzling  over  their  manifestations  inherited 
from  long  lines  of  ancestors;  while  Susie  and 
Ethel  and  Marie  Ann  captivated  you  by  in- 
stantly reflecting  the  influences  of  the  environ- 
ment about  them.     Why  hadn't  you  thought 
of   all   this   before?     And   you   a   teacher, 
too.    All  you  had  ever  learned  in  the  normal 
school  about  heredity,  environment  and  self- 
activity  were  insignificant  compared  with  a 
few  months  of  watching  this  woman's  under- 
standing of  the  children  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  before  you  knew  it  you  were  enjoying 
them  almost  as  much  as  she  enjoyed  them. 
She  loaned  you  her  heart  that  was  all.     How 
can  I  describe  her  relationship  to  children? 
As  I  have  said,  she  treated  them  as  equals, 
never  talked  down  to  them,  never  ignored 
their  presence.     Her    inner    world    was    so 
rich  and  full  and  varied  and  theirs  so  simple 
and  limited  and  empty  of  any  content  which 
would  have  seemed  significant  to  you  or  me, 
yet  they  never  seemed  to  bore  her.   Perhaps  I 
can  best  help  you  to  understand  the  life  she 


112  Misunderstood  Children. 

led  with  these  children  and  the  influence  she 
exercised  upon  them  by  relating  some  one  of 
the  almost  daily  occurrences  in  which,  by  a 
touch,  as  it  were,  she  would  transform  dark- 
ness into  light,  or  sadness  into  joy  for  this  or 
that  child.  The  particular  occasion  which 
comes  just  now  into  my  mind  was  one  morning 
when  by  a  few  words  she  changed  a  child's 
shame  and  misery  into  honor  and  glory.  It 
was  perhaps  because  I  so  keenly  enjoyed  the 
after  sequence  that  I  recall  the  scene  so  vividly. 
The  time  was  early  June  and  Miss  Dorothy 
sat  on  her  shady  side  porch  shelling  peas  for 
dinner.  Little  Katie  MacMahon  sat  on  a  low 
stool  beside  her,  proudly  helping  to  shell  the 
peas.  It  was  always  considered  an  honor  by 
the  neighborhood  children  to  help  Miss  Dor- 
othy. Little  Katie  MacMahon  was  the  only 
girl  in  the  large  family  of  partially  disrepu- 
table and  always  dirty  MacMahon  boys  who 
lived  with  their  shiftless  father  and  slatternly 
mother  in  the  shabby  old  frame  house  in  the 
alley  just  beyond  Judge  Nelson's  barn.  Our 
neighborhood  was  thrifty  and  respectable. 
We  were  not  rich  enough  to  have  to  be 
formal  in  our  intercourse  with  each  other 
and    not    poor    enough    to    disregard    each 


Katie  MacMahon.  113 

other's  privacy.  The  MacMahons  were  the 
only  family  of  what  is  known  as  "city  pov- 
erty" that  we  had  with  us.  Just  why  the  old 
frame  house  had  been  allowed  to  remain  in 
our  prosperous  suburb,  and  just  how  it  had 
held  together  year  after  year  without  paint  or 
repairs,  was  always  a  wonder  to  me.  Each 
year  the  roof  sagged  a  little  more,  each  win- 
ter a  few  more  bricks  tumbled  out  of  one  or 
the  other  of  the  two  chimneys,  each  spring  a 
few  more  panes  of  glass  were  broken  and  a 
few  more  rags  were  stuffed  in  to  fill  up  the 
holes  in  the  autumn,  and  almost  every  year  a 
new  baby  was  born  to  the  MacMahons  until 
their  muster  roll  was  now,  Jerry,  aged  12; 
Jimmy,  aged  11;  Michael,  aged  10;  Danny, 
aged  9  ;  Katie  aged  8  ;  Johnny,  aged  6  :  Roose- 
velt aged  4,  and  the  baby  aged  2.  I  must  not 
forget  the  three  dogs  and  the  two  Maltese 
cats,  as  they  are  a  part  of  the  story  I  am  about 
to  relate.  Of  course  rabbits,  guinea  pigs,  white 
mice  and  the  like  came  and  went  in  the  Mac- 
Mahon household,  but  they  were  not  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  whereas  the  three  dogs  and 
two  Maltese  cats  were  fed  at  the  table  and 
slept  in  the  house,  and,  so  far  as  one  could  see, 
were  treated  in  the  same  happy-go-lucky  way 


114  Misunderstood  Children. 

as  were  the  children.  They  even  received  their 
share  of  the  beatings,  which  I  am  glad  to  say 
were  not  as  frequent  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. Old  Tommy  MacMahon  (he  was 
not  forty-five,  but  everybody  called  him  Old 
Tommy)  was  easy-going,  even  when  under 
the  influence  of  liquor.  His  wife  was  too 
lazy  to  punish  more  than  with  a  box  of  the  ear 
unless  she  were  unusually  irritated  by  her  hus- 
band's having  spent  all  the  week's  earnings  at 
the  saloon.  Wifely  shame,  motherly  solicitude 
and  perhaps  personal  hunger  then  manifested 
themselves  by  her  seizing  the  first  child  or  dog 
she  came  across,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  giv- 
ing him,  or  it,  what  she  called  a  "good  round 
walloping."  Herein  she  showed  a  fine  dis- 
crimination in  English,  as  Webster  defines  the 
word  "wallop"  as  boiling  or  bubbling  up. 
And  such  chastisements  were  never  for  the 
purpose  of  punishing  an  offender,  or  revealing 
the  nature  of  a  misdeed,  but  merely  to  relieve 
her  own  nerves. 

But  let  us  come  back  to  my  story.  What  a 
long  way  we  have  wandered  from  Miss  Dor- 
othy and  her  sunny  porch !  However,  the  di- 
gression was  necessary  in  order  that  you 
might  realize  the  fact  that  even  in  our  neigh- 


Katie  MacMahon.  115 

borhood  we  had  the  upper  and  lower  strata  of 
society  varying  in  shades  and  degrees  from 
Judge  Nelson  and  his  stately  wife  down  to  the 
MacMahons,  for  upon  this  distinctly  marked 
feeling  of  caste  hangs  the  joy  of  my  story. 
Little  Katie  MacMahon  was  lame  and  rather 
slow  in  her  movements  and  in  consequence 
had  been  given  almost  no  training  in  house- 
hold duties  by  her  easy-going  mother,  who 
frequently  declared  that  she  would  rather 
have  her  "out  from  under  her  feet  than  to  be 
bothered  with  her."  So,  whenever  the  weather 
permitted,  Katie  and  the  dogs  were  turned  out 
of  doors  each  morning  before  the  so-called 
cleaning  up  began.  Of  course  she  soon  drifted 
over  to  the  brooding,  fostering  care  of  Dor- 
othy Duncan.  For  as  steel  filings  seek  the 
magnet,  children  are  drawn  towards  motherly 
women,  therefore  it  was  not  an  uncommon 
sight  to  see  her  and  Miss  Dorothy  perform- 
ing some  light  housework  together,  although 
Hannah,  who  had  reigned  supreme  in  Miss 
Duncan's  kitchen  for  twenty  years,  grumbled 
and  growled  occasionally  over  the  untidiness 
of  the  little  girl.  I  picked  up  my  sewing  and 
joined  my  friend  and  her  little  protege  on  the 
shady  porch.     Miss  Dorothy  was  telling  a 


1 1 6  Misunderstood  Children. 

fairy  tale  about  a  beautiful  princess  who  was 
visited  by  her  fairy  godmother  on  each  of  her 
birthdays.  "I  am  going  to  have  a  birthday 
next  week,"  interposed  Katie,  "Then,"  she 
added,  eagerly,  "my  papa's  going  to  buy  me 
a  great  big  doll,  as  big  as  a  real  baby,  and  my 
mamma's  going  to  give  me  a  whole  lot  of 
candy,  enough  to  give  some  to  all  the  children 
in  the  neighborhood."  It  was  evident  that  the 
MacMahon  imagination  had  awakened,  so 
why  stop  short  of  princely  doing.  "And  my 
brother  Jerry,"  she  continued,  "is  going  to 
take  us  all  over  to  the  Zoo,  and — "  "Yes,  I 
guess  you'll  do  all  that,"  drawled  out  a  voice, 
contemptuously.  "Your  daddy  drinks  like  a 
fish;  he  can't  even  pay  his  grocery  bill;  I 
heard  Mr.  Harding  say  so.  I  think  I  see  him 
buying  you  a  doll  as  big  as  a  baby."  Hot  in- 
dignation at  the  boy's  cruel  taunt  rushed  over 
me.  I  knew  it  was  Arthur  Nelson,  Judge  Nel- 
son's ten-year-old  son,  who  had  spoken.  They 
were  the  wealthiest  family  in  the  neighbor- 
hood,and  the  boy  had  most  unfortunately  been 
brought  up  to  feel  himself  superior  to  the 
other  children  because  his  father  had  done 
something  worth  while  in  the  world.  And  this 
feeling  of  superiority,  not  being  accompanied 


Katie  MacMahon.  117 

by  any  effort  to  live  up  to  his  father's  stand- 
ard, had  degenerated  into  a  supercilious  con- 
tempt for  most  of  the  people  about  him. 
Katie's  face  crimsoned  and  her  head  drooped 
as  a  flower  might  droop  at  the  sudden  touch 
of  frost.  She  was  a  warm-hearted  child  and 
loved  her  good-for-nothing  father  with  a  de- 
votion that  made  this  sudden  exposure  of  his 
weakness  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  I 
saw  the  quick  winking  of  her  eyes  to  keep 
back  the  tears,  and  the  nervous  biting  of  the 
lips  to  stop  their  quiver  of  pain.  The  boy 
stood  with  his  feet  apart,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  head  a  little  to  one  side, 
watching  the  effect  of  his  taunt.  Miss  Dor- 
othy continued  shelling  the  peas  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  "Good  morning,  Arthur,"  she 
said  pleasantly,  "would  not  you  like  to  help 
me  get  these  peas  ready  for  dinner?  Hannah 
is  quite  busy  this  morning."  Of  course  he 
wanted  to  help ;  every  child  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, as  I  have  already  stated,  felt  it  a  priv- 
ilege to  help  Miss  Dorothy  do  anything,  no 
matter  what.  In  a  moment  or  two  he  had 
brought  a  chair  from  the  dining-room  and  was 
eagerly  sharing  in  the  shelling  of  the  peas. 
The  three  worked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  min- 


1 1 8  Misunderstood  Children. 

utes,  long  enough  to  allow  little  Katie  to  re- 
gain her  self-control.  "And  next  Thursday  is 
your  birthday,  Katie.  So  it  is,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  that  it  came  this  month."  Miss 
Dorothy  spoke  so  quietly  that  no  note  in  her 
voice  indicated  the  slightest  inward  disturb- 
ance. "I  would  like  to  have  you  come  over 
and  dine  with  me  that  evening.  When  you  go 
home  to-day  will  you  ask  your  mother  to  let 
me  have  you  for  that  part  of  your  birthday,  or 
shall  I  write  her  a  note  about  it?"  "Oh,  Miss 
Dorothy,"  was  all  that  Katie  could  say,  but 
the  clasped  hands,  the  radiant  face,  the  joyful 
tone  in  which  were  uttered  these  three  words 
showed  that  the  sensitive  young  heart  which 
the  moment  before  had  been  battling  with 
wounded  pride  and  humiliated  love  had  sud- 
denly leaped  from  the  black  abyss  of  social 
ostracism  and  stood  once  more  in  the  sunlight 
of  human  comradeship.  I  glanced  at  Arthur. 
He  had  dropped  upon  the  porch  floor  the 
handful  of  peas  he  was  shelling  and  was  star- 
ing at  Miss  Dorothy  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  amazement  and  indignation.  What 
could  she  be  thinking  of  to  invite  that  dirty 
little  Irish  Katie  MacMahon  into  her  dainty 
dining-room  to  dine  with  her.   Why  even  he, 


Katie  MacMahon.  119 

Arthur  Nelson,  had  never  dined  with  Miss 
Duncan.  He  had  lunched  with  her  once  in  a 
while  if  he  chanced  to  be  in  her  house  when 
luncheon  was  announced,  but  to  be  ceremoni- 
ously invited  to  a  dinner  was  to  his  mind  the 
climax  of  social  distinction.  He  had  absorbed 
a  good  many  of  his  mother's  ideas  of  conven- 
tional society  and  an  invitation  to  dine  with 
anyone  brought  to  his  mind  the  vision  of  cut 
glass  and  dainty  china  and  long,  formal 
courses  of  expensive  food. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  Katie.  There  was 
no  contempt  now  in  his  face;  instead  there 
was  a  puzzled  look  of  wonder,  almost  of  ad- 
miration. I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
stories  of  disguised  princesses  suddenly  being 
changed  by  some  fairy  wand  from  beggar 
maids  into  royal  personages. 

Unless  one  has  lived  in  a  small  conservative 
village  where  the  record  of  one's  parents  and 
grandparents  have  been  handed  down  as  town 
property  one  can  have  no  realization  of  the 
keen  demarkation  of  social  strata  that  exists 
in  such  places.  The  news  of  the  invitation 
rapidly  spread.  The  simple  dinner  was  soon 
magnified  by  childish  imagination  into  "a  big 
party  with  lots  and  lots  of   ice    cream    and 


120  Misunderstood  Children 

candy?"  Katie  suddenly  became  the  most 
popular  child  in  the  neighborhood.  Invita- 
tions to  attend  the  party  were  hinted  at  each 
day.  Arthur,  who  hitherto  had  been  the  ac- 
knowledged social  leader  of  the  community, 
held  aloof  for  a  day  or  two,  then  changing  his 
policy  on  the  day  before  the  birthday,  accom- 
panied by  Katie,  appeared  on  Miss  Dorothy's 
porch  and  asked  for  an  invitation,  strengthen- 
ing his  position  with  "Katie  wants  me  to  come. 
Don't  you,  Katie?"  and  docile,  kind-hearted 
little  Katie,  flattered  (as  has  been  many  a 
climber  into  society)  by  the  unusual  attention 
said  "Yes."  Miss  Dorothy  Duncan,  however, 
was  equal  to  every  situation.  There  was  to 
be  no  "butting  in"  upon  her  social  arrange- 
ments. She  quietly  replied,  "No,  Arthur,  I 
can't  invite  you  without  inviting  some  of  the 
other  children;  this  is  to  be  a  dinner  for  Katie 
and  me  only."  Arthur  looked  baffled,  but  the 
two  went  off  the  porch  together,  and  I  heard 
Arthur  say,  "Come  over  to  our  yard  this 
afternoon,  Katie,  and  I'll  play  ball  with  you." 
Katie  went,  of  course. 

On  the  morning  of  the  birthday,  before 
breakfast  Miss  Duncan's  bell  rang.  There 
stood  Katie.     "I  came  to  tell  you,"  she  said, 


Katie  MacMahon.  121 

her  face  beaming  with  happiness,  "that  I  sure- 
ly am  coming  to-night.  Ma  washed  my  pink 
calico  dress  last  night,  and  she  is  ironing  it 
now;  Jerry  is  getting  breakfast  so  she  can, 
and  Mikey  is  takin'  care  of  the  baby  for 
Jerry."  Evidently  social  aspiration  was  stir- 
ring the  MacMahon  family.  The  daughter  of 
the  house  was  to  be  received  in  society  that 
evening. 

"All  right,"  answered  Miss  Dorothy,  with- 
out a  quiver  of  a  smile,  "come  over  at  six 
o'clock."  Katie  limped  away  accompanied  by 
two  of  the  family  of  dogs  who  had  followed 
her  on  her  errand  of  making  sure  that  the  in- 
vitation still  held  good. 

At  five-thirty  the  children  of  the  neighbor- 
hood assembled  on  my  front  porch  to  await 
the  arrival  of  Katie.  At  five-forty  Jerry,  Jim- 
my and  Michael  MacMahon  filed  out  of  the 
alley  house  and  took  their  station  just  across 
the  street  from  Miss  Duncan's  front  door. 
At  five-forty-five,  Johnny  and  Roosevelt 
joined  them.  These  two  younger  members  of 
the  family  had  evidently  been  prepared  for 
the  occasion;  their  faces,  necks  and  ears  were 
shining  from  recent  contact  with  soap,  and 
their  curly  hair  had  been  wet  and  plastered 


122  Misunderstood  Children. 

down.  In  a  minute  or  two  more  the  three 
dogs  appeared,  but  were  ignominiously  driven 
back  by  Jerry.  His  sister's  entrance  into  so- 
ciety was  evidently  not  the  time  for  dogs  to  be 
present.  The  five  brothers  stood  in  a  line, 
each  face  aglow  with  happiness  over  Katie's 
celebration.  At  five-fifty  there  was  a  flutter 
among  the  group  of  children  on  my  porch, 
with  whispered,  "There  she  comes,  look! 
look!"  The  five  boys  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street  had  also  felt  the  thrill  of  the  ap- 
proaching debutante,  for  Jerry  and  Jim  im- 
mediately began  a  nonchalant  picking  up  of 
pebbles  and  shying  them  down  the  street,  to 
show  that  they  were  not  the  least  excited  over 
the  matter  in  hand,  while  Mikey  and  Johnny 
began  a' scuffle  by  way  of  working  off  their 
surplus  emotions.  But  little  Roosevelt  was 
too  unsophisticated  in  the  ways  of  the  world 
to  try  to  disguise  his  pride.  He  swung  his 
arm  high  and  shouted,  "Hurrah,"  only  to  be 
jerked  down,  however,  by  Davie,  and  told  to 
behave  himself.  I  looked  down  the  alley,  and, 
sure  enough,  there  came  Katie,  radiant  in  the 
stiffly  starched  pink  calico.  Evidently  Mrs. 
MacMahon  had  risen  to  the  occasion  for  once 
in  her  life.    Her  daughter's  coiffure  was  the 


Katie  MacMahon.  123 

latest  mode.  Ordinarily  Katie's  hair  hung 
down  her  back  in  a  tangled,  frowzy  plait ;  now 
it  was  plaited  in  two  tight  braids  and  wound 
around  her  not  unshapely  head.  On  each  side 
of  the  head  was  a  huge  bow  of  cheap  pink  rib- 
bon. It  was  an  evidence  of  the  motherly  love 
and  pride  which  have  made  many  a  mother 
scrimp  and  pinch  in  order  that  her  daughter 
might  appear  well-dressed  in  society,  and  it 
touched  my  heart.  She  passed  our  porch 
group  with  nods  and  radiant  smiles.  There 
was  no  retaliation  for  past  snubs  in  the  sweet, 
childish  heart.  But  the  brothers  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street  were  properly  ignored.  It  is 
not  well  to  show  too  much  family  affection  in 
public.  Doubtless  she  knew  their  loyalty  and 
they  were  sure  of  her  love. 

With  an  instinctive  dignity  she  walked  up 
the  short  pathway  leading  to  Miss  Duncan's 
porch.  The  door  was  opened  by  Miss  Dor- 
othy herself  and  as  she  shook  hands  with 
Katie  we  all  saw  that  she  had  on  her  lavender 
gown,  usually  worn  only  on  Sunday.  The 
door  closed  behind  them,  and  the  brothers, 
having  seen  their  sister  safely  through  the 
ordeal,  filed  away.  The  group  on  my  porch 
left  by  ones  and  twos,  suddenly  remembering 

9 


124  Misunderstood  Children. 

that  they  had  supper  at  their  own  homes  wait- 
ing for  them. 

An  hour  later  word  was  passed  around  that 
Miss  Dorothy  Duncan  was  on  her  porch  and 
was  going  to  tell  stories.  That  was  always 
a  signal  for  every  child  who  could  to  station 
himself  on  the  porch  steps  or  floor,  for  among 
her  other  excellences  Miss  Dorothy  was  a  de- 
lightful storyteller. 

As  the  afterglow  faded  from  the  summer 
sky  and  the  gentle  twilight  settled  down  upon 
our  small  community  there  was  a  breaking  up 
of  the  interested  group  of  children  and  I 
heard  Miss  Dorothy's  voice  say,  "Thank 
you,  I  have  enjoyed  telling  the  stories  almost 
as  much  as  any  of  you,  but  it  is  Katie  you 
must  thank,  not  me.  It  was  she  who  sug- 
gested that  we  have  stories  this  evening. 
Haven't  we  all  enjoyed  her  birthday!"  and  a 
chorus  of  voices  answered,  "Yes,  indeed!" 
Arthur  Nelson  and  his  cousin,  Agatha  Pea- 
body,  passed  my  door  just  as  he  was  saying, 
"I  think  Katie  MacMahon  is  the  nicest  girl 
in  our  neighborhood,  don't  you  ?" 


A  STARVED  SOUL. 


While  spending  the  winter  in  the  South  one 
year,  being  somewhat  troubled  with  my  eyes, 
I  asked  my  regular  physician  to  recommend 
to  me  a  good  oculist.  He  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment   or    two    and  then  said,   "Young  Dr. 

has  just  returned  from  three  years 

of  study  in  Paris.  I  hear  he  has  the  latest 
scientific  methods  and  apparatus.  You  might 
try  him.  He  seemed  to  be  a  fine  young  fel- 
low before  he  went  away."  Then  he  added, 
laughingly,  "I  reckon  Paris  hasn't  spoiled 
him.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  him." 

The  next  week,  having  made  an  engagement 
by  letter  with  the  young  oculist,  I  went  at  the 
appointed  hour  to  his  office,  which  I  found 
was  in  his  own  home  in  a  pleasant  resident 
part  of  the  town. 

It  was  a  bright,  sunny  afternoon  in  late 
February.  The  children  of  the  neighborhood 
were  at  play  in  the  fresh,  sunshiny  air.  Two 
little  tots  were  digging  vigorously  in  a  sand- 
pile  left  by  some  recent  builders.  Several 
children  were  gathering  yellow  dandelions  in 

125 


126  Misunderstood  Children. 

a  vacant  lot  near  by.  Some  boys  were  gallop- 
ing as  horses  with  cord  reins  held  by  equally 
spirited  drivers.  Two  or  three  little  girls 
were  trundling  their  doll-carriages  along  the 
sidewalk  with  true  motherly  pride  and  solici- 
tude. Every  now  and  then  one  or  another  of 
them  would  stop  and  readjust  her  doll's  pil- 
low or  carriage  robe.  Here  was  a  group  of 
neighborhood  children  gathered  together  in 
eager  but  friendly  discussion  concerning  some 
new  project  upon  which  they  were  about  to 
venture.  A  little  farther  on  were  larger  boys 
who  had  taken  possession  of  a  side  street  and 
were  playing  ball  so  vigorously  that  every 
muscle  in  their  bodies  seemed  to  be  in  exercise 
as  they  bowed,  or  bent,  or  leaped  into  the  air 
to  catch  the  ball,  or  ran  far  down  the  street 
after  it,  in  case  they  failed  to  catch  it.  All 
around  me  was  the  life-giving  air  and  sun- 
shine and  the  children  at  play  in  such  sur- 
roundings seemed  to  me  to  have  all  that 
children  long  for.  Nothing  could  have 
been  better  for  their  physical  upbuilding  than 
such  vigorous,  free  play,  and  nothing  could 
have  been  better  for  their  social  training  for 
comradeship  than  their  voluntary  co-opera- 
in  this  same  free  play. 


A  Starved  Soul.  127 

My  thoughts  traveled  back  to  the  little  ones 
of  my  own  home  city  in  the  North,  who  at 
this  season  of  the  year  were  imprisoned  in 
furnace-heated  rooms.  And  I  mentally  ejacu- 
lated, "Bless  them!  I  wish  they  were  every 
one  of  them  here  enjoying  this  balmy  air  and 
filling  their  hearts  with  the  love  of  Nature's 
blue  sky  and  green  fields  I"  I  consoled  myself 
with  the  thought  that  many  hundreds  of  them 
were  at  least  in  kindergartens,  learning  to  use 
hands  and  heads  and  hearts  in  co-operation 
with  other  children.  And  my  thoughts,  natur- 
ally enough,  traveled  back  to  scenes  and  expe- 
riences in  these  child-gardens  of  the  North. 

I  suddenly  remembered  that  I  had  not 
come  out  to  watch  children  at  play,  or  for 
a  leisurely  saunter  in  the  pleasant  air.  I 
was  on  what  was  to  me  an  important  errand. 
So  I  began  to  look  at  the  numbers  on  the 
houses.  In  a  few  moments  my  eyes  were  at- 
tracted by  the  pathetically  sad  face  of  a  child 
about  five  years  of  age,  which  was  pressed 
close  against  the  window-pane  of  an  upper 
window  of  a  handsome  brick  house.  The 
wistful  blue  eyes  looked  longingly  out  at  a 
group  of  children  who  were  playing  in 
front  of  the  house.     The  pretty  yellow  hair 


128  Misunderstood  Children. 

that  framed  the  sad  little  face  was  carefully 
curled  and  tied  back  with  a  large  blue  ribbon 
bow.  And  her  dainty  white  frock  showed  that 
she  was  fondly  cared  for.  Yet  the  face  was 
one  of  the  loneliest,  saddest  faces  I  had  ever 
seen  on  a  child.  "Poor  little  thing!"  I 
thought,  "She  must  be  a  cripple  shut  away 
from  all  this  joyous  child-life."  I  nodded  and 
smiled,  and  the  child  instantly  smiled  back. 
Just  then  I  discovered  that  the  house  was  the 
one  for  which  I  was  hunting.  With  the  pity 
for  the  little  cripple  still  tingling  in  my  heart, 
I  ran?  the  door-bell.  Then  I  heard  the  sweet 
chatter  of  a  child's  voice  calling  to  someone 
in  the  house  as  I  waited.  The  door  was 
opened  by  a  maid  in  a  snowy  cap  and  apron. 
Imagine  my  surprise  to  see  the  little  girl 
whom  I  had  pictured  as  moving  painfully 
about  on  crutches  come  running  down  the  hall 
with  a  doll  in  her  arms  as  if  to  meet  a  friend. 
I  held  out  my  hand  and  she  took  it.  At  the 
same  time  she  looked  up  questioningly  into 
my  face  with  an  anxious  expression  that  puz- 
zled me.  The  maid  stated,  in  pretty  broken 
English,  that  Monsieur,  the  doctor,  had  been 
much  pained  by  one  tooth  and  much  regretted 
that  he  must  go  to  the  dentist,    but    would 


A  Starved  Soul.'  129 

madam  come  in.  Monsieur,  the  doctor,  would 
soon  be  home.  In  just  one  little  time  he  would 
be  here.  "All  right"  I  said  as  I  turned  to  enter 
the  office.  "The  little  girl  will  entertain  me." 
"Come  here,  and  tell  me  about  your  dolls," 
I  said  to  the  child,  who  had  dropped  my  hand, 
but  stood  listening  with  acute  attention.  She 
came  into  the  office  somewhat  hesitatingly.  I 
sat  down  and,  holding  out  both  hands,  said, 
"Well,  now,  come  here  and  tell  me  what  is 
the  name  of  your  doll.  Then  I  will  tell  you 
something  about  my  dolls!"  Instantly  an  ex- 
pression of  bitter  disappointment  overspread 
her  face.  And  the  haunting  loneliness  came 
again  into  her  eyes.  "Why,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, my  child!"  I  exclaimed.  "Come  here,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.  I  am  very  fond  of  little 
girls,  and  of  dolls,  too."  She  merely  shook 
her  head  and  drew  away  as  if  I  had  hurt  her. 
"Won't  you  come  and  talk  to  me  while  I  wait 
for  papa?"  I  said,  coaxingly.  She  replied 
in  a  tone  of  bitterness,  almost  resentment,  and 
backed  out  of  the  room  shaking  her  head  in  a 
sad,  weary  fashion.  What  could  be  the  mat- 
ter? I  was  still  puzzling  over  the  situation 
when  the  handsome  young  wife  of  the  oculist 
came  into  the  room,  and  in  a  charming  way 


130  Misunderstood  Children. 

explained  her  husband's  absence,  and  ex- 
pressed regret  over  my  having  to  wait  for  him. 

She  was  delightful  and  we  fell  into  an  easy, 
pleasant  conversation.  Soon  the  door  opened 
a  little  and  in  the  crack  appeared  the  wistfully 
sad  face  of  the  little  child.  Again  I  smiled 
and  held  out  my  hand.  The  mother  said 
something  to  her.  I  did  not  understand  what, 
and  the  child  came  into  the  room.  Again  I 
said,  "Please  let  me  see  your  dolly!  Won't 
you?"  Her  mother  again  spoke  to  her.  I 
did  not  catch  what  she  said,  but  the  child  in- 
stantly came  forward  and  laid  the  doll  in  my 
lap.  Then  looking  searchingly  into  my  eyes, 
she  said  eagerly  in  French,  "You  will  under- 
stand me,  will  you  not?"  "What  is  it  she  is 
saying,"  I  asked  of  the  mother.  "Oh,  noth- 
ing," she  replied,  pleasantly,  as  she  signaled 
to  the  child  to  leave  the  room.  She  does  not 
speak  English  and  she  was  asking  if  you 
would  talk  to  her  in  French." 

"Does  not  speak  English!"  I  involuntarily 
exclaimed,  "What  do  you  mean?"  The 
mother  laughed  an  amused  little  laugh  and 
said,  "We  have  just  returned  from  a  three- 
years'  residence  in  Paris,  and  while  there 
Annetta  acquired  such  an  excellent  French  ac- 


A  Starved  Soul.  131 

cent  that  I  could  not  bear  to  have  it  spoiled. 
So  we  brought  a  French  maid  home  with  us, 
and  I  never  allow  Annetta  to  go  out  unless  my 
maid  or  I  go  with  her,  as  I  do  not  wish  her  to 
hear  other  children  talk  in  English.  Her  fa- 
ther and  I  always  use  the  French  language 
when  speaking  with  her,  or  in  her  presence." 

"But,"  I  protested — realizing  fully  that  I 
was  trespassing  on  forbidden  ground — "are 
you  not  depriving  her  of  much  when  you  shut 
her  away  from  all  other  children?"  "Oh, 
yes,"  she  replied.  "She  often  begs  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go  out  to  play  with  the  children  of 
the  neighborhood,  but  I  can't  bear  to  have  her 
beautiful  French  spoiled." 

It  was  clear  to  me  now.  I  knew  why 
the  little  face  was  so  sad.  Why  the  pathetic 
blue  eyes  had  in  them  such  depth  of  longing. 
Her  poor  little  soul  was  starving  for  compan- 
ionship. I  rose  and  nervously  began  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room.  Then  summoning  all 
the  moral  courage  I  could,  I  stopped  before 
the  mother  and  said,  "Please  pardon  me,  if 
what  I  say  seems  rude  and  intrusive,  but  I 
am  a  kindergartner,  and  have  had  the  care  of 
many  scores  of  little  children.  They  have 
been  the  study  of  my  life.    Do  you  not  realize 


132  Misunderstood  Children. 

that  a  child's  soul  can  be  starved  as  well  as 
its  body.  Every  child  needs  the  companion- 
ship of  other  children,  just  as  you  and  I  need 
the  society  of  our  equals."  Then  I  added  as 
politely  as  I  could,  "Forgive  me  for  the  free- 
dom I  have  taken  with  you,  an  entire 
stranger."  She  did  not  reply,  but  the  smile 
was  gone  from  her  lips,  and  faint  lines  of 
worry  came  on  her  smooth,  white  forehead. 

Just  then  the  doctor  came  in,  and  the  young 
mother  excused  herself,  and  left  the  office. 
When  I  was  once  more  in  the  street  I  in- 
voluntarily glanced  up  at  the  window  and 
there  stood  the  lonely,  sad-faced  little  girl, 
watching  the  other  children  at  their  play.  Just 
as  she  had  stood  an  hour  ago  when  I  first  saw 
her.  And  then  came  trooping  before  me 
images  of  all  the  little  lonely  children  who  are 
shut  away  from  companionship  with  other 
children  because  their  mammas  wish  to  be  ex- 
clusive, or  do  not  want  Marie's  or  Herbert's 
manners  spoiled,  or  fear  contagious  diseases, 
or  for  some  other  such  reason.  And  my  heart 
grew  fierce  and  hot  as  I  thought  of  what  such 
solitary  confinement  would  mean  to  any  of 
these  fathers  or  mothers.  Then  the  still  small 
voice  within  whispered,  "Father!  forgive 
them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 


DAUGHTERS  OF  MEN. 


I  was  on  a  suburban  train  one  bright  Sep- 
tember day,  when  my  attention  was  attracted 
to  a  group  who  sat  across  the  aisle  from  me. 
It  was  evidently  a  father  with  his  two  chil- 
dren, who  were  returning  home  from  a  shop- 
ping expedition. 

The  man  had  the  face  of  a  refined  gentle- 
man, but  his  broad  shoulders  and  alert  ways 
showed  the  virility  of  a  strong,  masculine 
nature.  The  threads  of  silver  here  and  there 
in  his  thick  dark  hair  also  showed  that  the  im- 
pulsive days  of  youth  were  over,  and  the  firm 
lines  about  his  shaven  mouth  and  chin  spoke 
of  the  habit  of  authority  and  command.  Still 
there  was  a  pleasant  smile  in  his  eyes  and  a 
kindly  tone  in  his  voice.  On  the  seat  opposite 
sat  a  boy  about  eight  years  of  age,  a  manly- 
looking  little  fellow,  and  by  his  side  was  his 
six-year-old  sister.  Both  children  gave  evi- 
dence of  wholesome  feeding  and  careful 
"grooming."  It  was  quite  apparent  that  their 
physical  needs  were  well  looked  after. 

It   was   the   quiet,    dignified   conversation 

*33 


134  Misunderstood  Children. 

which  was  being  exchanged  between  father 
and  son  that  first  attracted  my  attention.  My 
silent  comment  was,  "He  is  certainly  a  father 
who  respects  his  son.  No  wonder  the  boy  is 
such  a  manly  little  fellow."  They  were  near- 
ing  their  destination,  and  the  father  had  be- 
gun assorting  several  packages,  preparatory 
to  leaving  the  train.  "Here,  my  son,"  he  said, 
"You  may  carry  the  basket  of  grapes.  Take 
it  carefully  by  the  handle.  Ah,  that  is  right !" 
This  last  was  said  with  a  smile  of  approval,  as 
the  boy,  with  evident  pride  at  being  entrusted 
to  such  an  extent,  had  carefully  taken  hold  of 
the  handle  of  the  basket  and  had  balanced  it 
on  his  two  knees. 

The  little  girl  looked  up  wistfully,  but  she 
sat  still  with  her  hands  clasped  tightly  in  her 
lap.  The  father  next  took  up  a  lighter  bundle. 
The  little  daughter's  eyes  grew  anxiously 
bright  and  her  slight  body  leaned  eloquently 
toward  her  father.  Her  hands  unclasped  and 
one  of  them  involuntarily  moved  forward  a 
trifle.  The  yearning  in  the  child's  heart  to 
share  in  the  usefulness  of  her  brother  was 
clearly  manifest,  although  she  said  not  a  word. 
But  the  father  evidently  did  not  see,  or  at 
least  did  not  heed  the  mute  appeal.     How 


Daughters  of  Men.  135 

many  generations  of  fathers  have  been  just  as 
blind  !  And  how  many  generations  of  daugh- 
ters have  been  just  as  mute. 

The  bundle  was  laid  down  again.  The 
father  stood  up  slowly  filling  the  capacious 
pockets  of  his  light  overcoat  with  other  pack- 
ages. Then,  looking  slightly  perplexed,  he 
again  picked  up  the  light-weight  package. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  said,  laugh- 
ingly, "My  son,  I  seem  to  have  more  than  I 
can  carry.  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  to 
take  charge  of  this  package  also?" 

"Oh,  let  me  carry  it!  Please  let  me!" 
broke  from  the  lips  of  the  little  girl.  Her 
cheeks  had  flushed,  and  there  was  real  heart- 
pleading  in  her  tone.  "No,  no!"  said  the 
father,  "Brother  can  carry  it,  I  am  sure.  Can 
you  not,  Brother?" 

"Of  course  I  can,"  cried  the  boy,  as,  with 
the  tone  of  inborn  superiority,  derived  from 
generations  of  masculine  burden-bearing,  he 
took  the  package  and  showed  how  he  could 
carry  the  two.  A  momentary  glance  of 
triumph  was  cast  toward  the  little  sister.  But 
it  was  enough  to  cause  her  to  shrink  back  and 
retreat  within  herself,  as  the  look  of  eager  an- 


136  Misunderstood  Children. 

ticipation  which  had  come  into  her  eyes  died 
out. 

As  the  train  slowed  up  the  three  arose  to 
their  feet.  "Well,  I  declare  I"  exclaimed  the 
father,  "I  had  almost  forgotten  my  news- 
paper." As  he  picked  up  the  closely  rolled 
sheet  a  light  once  more  broke  over  the  face  of 
the  little  girl.  "Oh,  father,  let  me  carry  it! 
Please  let  me  I"  There  was  no  mistaking  of 
the  tone  of  entreaty  now.  Nor  was  there,  to 
my  mind,  at  least,  any  mistaking  of  the  motive 
which  caused  the  boy  to  hastily  transfer  his 
bundle  to  his  hand  which  carried  the  basket. 
He  reached  out  the  hand  thus  freed,  saying  in 
an  easy,  indifferent  tone,  "Give  it  here !  I'll 
carry  it !"  But  the  daughter  of  the  house  had 
been  too  quick  for  him.  She  had  the  coveted 
burden  already  in  her  hand  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  happiness.  She  had  asserted  her  right 
to  be  a  sharer  in  life's  burdens  and  had  won! 
"Ah!  pshaw!  exclaimed  the  boy,  contemptu- 
ously, "You  can't  carry  anything!  You'll 
drop  it !  Give  it  to  me !"  With  these  words 
he  reached  out  his  hand  and  took  hold  of  the 
paper.  A  struggle  ensued.  A  struggle  as  old 
as  recorded  history! 

The  father  had  already  stepped   into   the 


Daughters  of  Men.  137 

car  aisle.  Turning  his  head,  he  saw  the 
cause  of  the  trouble,  and,  quickly  adjusting  a 
bundle  which  he  himself  was  carrying,  he 
leaned  down  and,  taking  the  rolled  newspaper 
from  the  girl's  hand,  he  gave  it  to  the  boy 
with  the  remark,  "Girls  must  not  carry  bun- 
dles !  That  is  what  brothers  are  for."  Then 
he  turned  and  the  three  left  the  car.  But  he 
saw  not  the  droop  of  the  shoulders  or  the 
expression  of  despair  that  spread  over  the 
face  of  the  little  girl.  Her  lip  quivered  for  a 
second  and  then  she  made  a  brave  effort  to 
smile.  But  it  was  a  pathetic  little  smile,  and 
only  half  concealed  the  chagrin  of  defeat. 

As  the  train  sped  on  I  gazed  out  of  the 
window,  but  I  did  not  see  the  trees  and  pas- 
tures. Instead,  there  passed  before  me  a  long 
procession — centuries  long — of  "daughters 
who  must  not  carry  bundles,"  bending  some- 
times breaking  under  the  burdens  which  every 
true  woman  must  sooner  or  later  carry.  And  I 
wondered  when  well-meaning,  loving  fathers 
would  learn  that  a  hot-house  training  is  not 
the  best  training  for  their  daughters,  who 
must  one  day  take  part  in  the  battles  of  life,  or 
let  their  souls  wither  and  die  under  the  first 
chilling  frost  of  adversity.     Perhaps,  what 


138  Misunderstood  Children. 

is  worse,  far  worse,  they  might  grow  callous 
and  selfish  through  indolence  and  trample  un- 
der foot  the  love  and  devotion  which  every 
true  man  brings  to  his  bride,  and  unwittingly 
crush  out  this  precious  love,  because  they 
have  never  been  trained  to  take  responsibili- 
ties, and  therefore  could  not  know  how  to 
help  him  bear  the  burdens  that  must  come 
sooner  or  later  to  all  daughters  as  well  as  all 
sons  of  men. 


HERBERT  AT  HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S 


My  friend  Margaret  Sayre  and  I  were  in- 
vited one  summer  to  spend  a  week  in  the  home 
of  some  friends  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Mohawk.  Their's  was  one  of  those  dear, 
lovely  old  homesteads  which  had  grown  with 
the  growing  family,  adding  here  a  wing  and 
there  an  ell,  regardless  of  architecture  of  pro- 
portion. But  it  had  the  beauty  of  utility,  that 
sure  evidence  of  the  sincerity  of  the  life  which 
had  been  lived  within  its  walls.  The  yards, 
too,  with  its  large  lilac  bushes,  taller  than  a 
man's  head,  its  old-fashioned  roses  and  climb- 
ing honeysuckle  told  of  the  loving  care  which 
its  owners  had  bestowed  upon  the  place  in 
years  gone  by.  The  undulating  hills  stretched 
to  the  far-away  horizon  and  added  to  the  air 
of  quiet  and  peace  that  hovered  over  the  en- 
tire landscape.  It  was  the  time  for  the  harvest- 
ing of  the  hop  fields  which  surrounded  the  vil- 
lage, and  each  morning  a  picturesque  line  of 
hoppickcrs  wended  their  way  up  the  hill  past 
my  friend's  house.  The  village  itself  lay  silent 
and  asleep  in  the  sunshine.    One  felt  as  if  the 

10  139 


140  Misunderstood  Children. 

vexatious  problems  of  life  could  not  enter 
here.  I  was  soon  to  learn  that  such  a  notion 
was  but  a  dream;  for  where  life  is  must  come 
life's  problems.  I  found  that  the  young  mar- 
ried daughter  of  my  hostess  was  spending  the 
summer  at  the  old  home.  She  had  with  her 
her  only  child,  a  boy  of  five. 

The  grandmother  expressed  herself  as 
pleased  that  we  had  come  while  the  child  was 
there,  and  lost  no  time  in  telling  me  privately 
that  she  hoped  I  would  discover  what  was  the 
matter  with  him.  "Nobody,"  she  said,  seemed 
to  understand  him.  "And,"  she  added,  "He  is 
a  source  of  great  anxiety  to  his  father  and 
mother.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  him !  I  don't  think  he  is  a  bad  boy,  and 
yet  he  is  always  getting  into  some  mischief." 

We  saw  nothing  of  the  child  during  the 
morning,  but  at  the  noon  dinner  he  appeared. 
He  looked  strong  and  well  and  was  neatly 
dressed,  and  was  scrupulously  clean,  showing 
that  the  best  possible  care  had  been  given  to 
his  bodily  welfare.  But  an  expression  of 
irritability  and  discontent  was  on  his  face  and 
his  whole  manner  was  that  of  extreme  ennui. 
He  had  to  be  coaxed  by  both  his  grandfather 
and  grandmother  to  eat  his  dinner,  while  his 


Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's       141 

mother  looked  on  in  distress,  adding  now  and 
then  a  word  or  two  of  reproach  or  rebuke  to 
the  boy.  I  noticed,  however,  after  a  due 
amount  of  coaxing,  he  ate  with  the  hearty 
relish  of  a  healthy  child. 

A  little  later  in  the  afternoon  Margaret 
and  I  were  sitting  on  the  porch  in  front  of  the 
house,  when  he  came  wandering  in  listless 
fashion  down  the  gravel  walk  towards  the 
side  gate.  After  a  few  moments  of  idle  look- 
ing about,  he  began  picking  up  pebbles  and 
throwing  them,  one  at  a  time,  at  the  young 
turkeys  and  chickens  that  were  scattered  about 
in  the  back  yard. 

"Don't  do  that,  Herbert,"  said  his  mother 
from  the  parlor  window  near  by.  The  boy 
glanced  up  carelessly  for  a  minute  and  then 
continued  throwing  the  pebbles  at  the  fowls. 
His  face  did  not  change  in  the  slightest  degree 
its  expression  of  indifference.  "Herbert!" 
called  his  grandmother  from  the  rear  of  the 
house,  "I  have  told  you  again  and  again  that 
you  ??iust  not  throw  stones  at  the  chickens!" 
The  boy  smiled  wearily  as  if  recalling  the  oft- 
repeated  but  somewhat  stupid  command,  then, 
selecting  one  or  two  large  pebbles,  he  took  de- 
liberate  aim   at   the    defenseless    fowls   and 


142  Misunderstood  Children. 

threw  them  singly,  but  so  skillfully  that  one  of 
them  struck  sharply  against  the  wing  of  a 
young  turkey,  which  ran  off  squawking  until  it 
reached  a  safe  distance.  "Herbert,  Herbert!" 
called  the  grandmother  in  a  tone  of  exaspera- 
tion, "Didn't  you  hear  what  I  said  ?" 

"Oh,  dear!  What  shall  I  do  with  that 
child,"  came  plaintively  from  the  parlor  win- 
dow. "He  is  always  tormenting  something  or 
somebody!"  Then  the  young  mother  added 
in  a  louder  voice,  "Herbert,  mamma  will  cer- 
tainly have  to  whip  you  again  if  you  do  not 
let  grandma's  chickens  alone !"  The  boy 
glanced  up,  lifted  his  eyebrows  slightly,  and, 
gathered  up  some  more  pebbles,  took  a  po- 
sition a  little  to  one  side  in  order  that  he 
might  aim  more  accurately  at  the  chickens  in 
the  rear  of  the  yard. 

Margaret  rose  from  the  low  chair  in  which 
she  had  been  sitting  and  sauntered  down  the 
walk  and  began  to  pick  up  the  pebbles  also. 
The  boy  stopped  his  attack  on  the  fowls  and 
eyed  her,  at  first  contemptuously  and  then 
with  some  degree  of  curiosity.  Soon  she  began 
laying  her  pebbles  in  regular  rows  about  two 
inches  apart.  "What's  that  you  are  doing," 
said  the  child,  as  he  came  slowly  toward  her. 


Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's.       143 

"These  are  the  hop-gatherers  going  up  the 
hill,"  she  replied.  "Don't  you  see,"  she  con- 
tinued quietly,  without  looking  up,  "these 
large  pebbles  are  the  women  and  the  small 
ones  are  the  boys  and  girls  who  go  along  to 
help."  Master  Herbert  nonchalantly  drew  a 
little  nearer,  but  unconsciously  his  face 
showed  interest  and  surprise.  She  continued  to 
place  the  smooth,  white  pebbles  at  regular  in- 
tervals without  seeming  to  take  any  further 
notice  of  the  boy.  He  came  a  step  or  two 
nearer,  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers 
pockets  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  with 
the  air  of  a  superior  being  who  was  amused 
for  the  moment  by  the  purile  play  of  an  in- 
ferior. She  continued  to  extend  the  line  of 
pebbles  towards  the  gate.  He  noticed  that  she 
picked  up  one  or  two  and  then  tossed  them 
aside.  "Why  don't  you  use  those  pebbles?" 
said  he,  pointing  condescendingly  to  one  of 
them  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe.  "Because  I  want 
only  the  clean,  white  ones,"  replied  Margaret, 
still  intent  upon  her  work.  "I  want  all  the 
mothers  to  be  beautiful  and  all  their  children 
to  have  clean  faces."  "See!"  she  added. 
"What  a  long  line  of  them  there  is !  They  will 
soon  be  up  to  the  bop  fields  picking  the  hops." 


144  Misunderstood  Children. 

The  curious,  half-contemptuous  look  on  his 
face  changed  slowly  to  one  of  amused  interest. 
After  a  time,  stooping  down  and  picking  up 
a  smooth,  white  pebble,  he  handed  it  to  her. 
"Good !"  she  said.  "That's  right,  bring  some 
more  people  from  your  neighborhood.  We 
want  all  the  workers  we  can  get  this  week. 
That  will  do  for  a  mother.  Now,  find  her 
little  boy  and  let  him  walk  by  her  side."  The 
scornful  look  vanished  from  the  child's  face. 
Margaret  and  he  were  soon  in  high  glee  call- 
ing to  each  other  from  the  two  ends  of  the  line 
that  this  or  that  woman  had  brought  along 
two  of  her  children,  even  three  or  four. 
"Where  are  the  papas?"  said  the  boy,  rising 
from  his  stooping  position  that  he  might  the 
better  contemplate  their  work.  "You  may 
select  some  large  pebbles  for  the  fathers," 
said  Margaret,  "and  put  one  by  the  side  of 
each  mother."  He  was  delighted  with  the 
idea,  and  began  working  once  more  with -lively 
energy.  She  next  suggested  that  he  build  a 
large  hop  field  at  the  upper  end  of  the  walk 
and  put  a  fence  of  pebbles  around  it.  Then 
excusing  herself,  saying  she  must  go  to  her 
room  for  a  few  moments,  she  left  him,  busy 
and  intent  upon  the  completing  of  the  repre- 


Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's.       145 

sentation  of  this  strange  new  life  of  the  hop- 
gatherers  into  which  he  so  lately  had  come, 
differing  so  greatly  from  the  city  life  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed.  When  he 
entered  the  parlor  a  little  later  to  ask  Mar- 
garet to  come  out  and  see  what  he  had  made, 
his  eyes  were  sparkling  and  his  face  was 
flushed  with  pleasure.  Later  on,  after  he  had 
completed  the  work  to  his  own  satisfaction,  he 
came  once  more  to  where  his  mother,  Mar- 
garet and  I  sat  talking,  and,  leaning  affection- 
ately on  the  arm  of  his  mother's  chair,  he 
gazed  eloquently  into  Margaret's  face.  The 
mother  lovingly  stroked  his  hair  and  said 
something  laughingly  about  my  friend's  hav- 
ing captured  her  boy's  heart.  "Oh,  no !"  an- 
swered Margaret,  quickly,  "Herbert's  heart 
is  still  with  his  mother.  He  and  I  have  just 
been  having  some  fun  together.  We'll  have 
some  more  to-morrow,  won't  we  Herbert?" 
He  nodded  a  delighted  assent  and  began  ask- 
ing some  eager  and  earnest  questions  about 
the  hop-pickers.  His  grandfather  came  in  just 
then  and  offered  to  take  him  to  see  the  hop 
fields,  which  were  less  than  a  half  a  mile  away. 
The  boy  bounded  off  for  his  cap  and  the  two 
walked  down  the  gravel  path  hand  in  hand, 


146  Misunderstood  Children. 

Herbert  gayly  asking  questions  and  the  happy- 
grandfather  answering  them  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  told  of  the  pride  he  felt  in  having  so 
intelligent  a  grandson.  Soon  after  the  two 
had  disappeared  Margaret  came  down 
dressed  for  a  walk,  and  informed  me  that  she 
was  going  by  another  path  to  the  hop  fields  so 
as  to  surprise  Herbert  and  his  grandfather  by 
meeting  them  there,  "and  also  to  gather  some 
more  facts  for  the  romance  Herbert  and  I  are 
weaving,"  she  added,  as  she  pointed  laugh- 
ingly to  the  row  of  pebbles,  and  then  ran 
down  the  gravel  walk. 

"What  a  strange  girl  she  is,"  said  my 
hostess:  "What  possible  romance  can  she  find 
in  playing  with  a  few  white  pebbles  and  a  five- 
year-old  boy.  In  my  day,  girls  of  her  age 
were  thinking  of  clothes  and  beaux." 

"In  some  unexplainable  way  she  has 
touched  my  son's  heart,"  said  the  young 
mother,  gently.  "I  have  not  seen  him  as  happy 
in  a  long  time  as  he  was  when  he  came  in  from 
their  play  together.  Herbert  is  of  such  an 
unhappy  disposition.  He  is  never  satisfied, 
no  matter  how  much  we  do  for  him."  "Pos- 
sibly that  is  the  difficulty,"  I  replied.  "Per- 
haps you  do  too  much  for  him.     No  child  is 


Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's.       147 

happy  unless  he  is  using  his  own  powers. 
That  is  the  law  of  all  nature."  Both  women 
looked  at  me  inquiringly  and  the  grandmother 
said,  sharply,  "Stop  your  teacher-talk  and  tell 
us  why  Margaret  was  able  to  make  Herbert 
happy  in  so  short  a  time,  when  we  had  been 
taxing  ourselves  ever  since  he  came  to  keep 
him  out  of  mischief,  not  to  speak  of  making 
him  contented." 

Seeing  that  they  were  really  in  earnest,  I 
replied.  "The  expression  on  a  child's  face  and 
the  tone  of  his  voice  tell  of  his  mental  con- 
dition as  surely  as  hectic  flush  or  extreme 
pallor  tell  of  physical  condition.  In  your 
boy's  case,  these  indicated  to  me,  and  I  pre- 
sume suggested  the  same  to  Margaret,  that 
the  world  of  fancy  had  not  been  opened  to 
him.  His  mind  had  been  fed  on  facts,  and 
therefore  his  imagination  had  not  had  suf- 
ficient wholesome  play.  The  imagination  is 
the  great  awakener  of  creative  thought.  The 
boy  instinctively  longed  to  make  his  own 
world.  Do  we  not  each  one  of  us  want  to 
fashion  our  own  lives?  In  your  extreme  care 
of  him  you  have  crowded  upon  him  things 
and  facts  which  yon  had  selected  from  your 
world  of  experiences  and  observations  until 


148  Misunderstood  Children. 

he  was  weary.  All  that  Margaret  did  was  to 
help  him  re-create  in  play  the  new  world  of 
country  life  into  which  he  has  so  recently 
come.  The  long  line  of  hop-pickers  going 
past  your  house  each  morning  is  the  one  stir- 
ring event  of  the  day,  especially  to  a  city  child 
who  knows  more  about  city  people  than  he 
does  about  nature.  First,  she  aroused  his 
curiosity  by  silently  arranging  the  pebbles  in 
such  a  way  as  to  show  that  she  had  some  defi- 
nite plan  in  mind.  This  awakened  his  in- 
terest, and  when  he  asked  her  what  she  was 
doing  she  plunged  him  into  the  life  of  the 
hop-pickers  whom  he  had  watched  each  morn- 
ing climb  the  hill  and  disappear.  With  this 
difference,  however:  these  were  his  hop-pick- 
ers and  he  could  do  what  he  chose  with  them. 
He  not  only  reproduced  the  life  about  him  by 
his  play,  and  therefore  began  to  understand 
that  life  better,  but  he  idealized  it  and  added 
what  he  felt  it  needed,  by  suggesting  that  the 
fathers  walk  with  the  mothers,  and  that  they 
climb  the  hill  together,  also  that  three  or  four 
children  were  in  some  of  the  pebble-families. 
Thus,  his  sympathies  were  quickened  by  this 
world  of  poetic  fancy  into  which  the  play 
had    led    him."     "You  watched  with  keen 


Herbert  at  His  Grandmother's.       149 

attention,"  continued  I,  turning  to  the  young 
mother  whose  earnest  eyes  were  inviting  me 
to  prolong  the  explanation.  "Having  inter- 
ested him  in  the  hop-pickers,  Margaret  next 
led  him  to  fence  in  a  field  of  his  own  for  them 
to  come  to.  You  may  laugh  if  you  wish,  but 
could  you  see  in  the  small  activities  of  child- 
hood the  embryo  activities  of  life  at  large  as 
we  kindergartners  do,  you  would  see  in  this 
simple  building  of  an  imaginary  hop  field  the 
same  instinct  which  Goethe  portrayed  in  the 
aged  Faust,  when,  having  redeemed  a  new 
land  from  the  sea,  he  called  a  free  people  to 
come  and  live  upon  it.  This  was  one  of  the 
great  Goethe's  greatest  insights.  No  soul  is 
contented  until  it  has  created  a  world  for  it- 
self and  its  own  activity.  You  saw  the  bright- 
ness on  Herbert's  face  as  he  came  into  the 
house.  It  was  but  the  reflection  of  the  bright- 
ness of  the  spirit  within  his  breast  which  had 
been  stirred  by  its  own  activity  into  creating  a 
miniature  world,  the  hop  field.  If  you  will 
watch  you  will  doubtless  see  Margaret  de- 
velop this  creative  power  in  your  boy  in  a 
hundred  ways.  To  her  this  is  not  foolish 
play.  It  is  an  opportunity  to  quicken  the  heart 
of  a  little  child,  and  to  awaken  in  him  a  new 


150  Misunderstood  Children. 

and  wonderful  world  of  poetry  and  romance, 
of  ideals  and  activities  which,  if  rightly  di- 
rected, will  lead  him  on  to  a  larger  and  richer 
life  than  would  be  possible  without  such  play." 
The  tears  stood  in  the  young  mother's  eyes. 
The  grandmother  and  I  rose,  as  if  by  one  in- 
stinct, and  left  her  to  ponder  all  these  things 
in  her  heart  as  Mary  of  Old  had  pondered  in 
her  heart  her  Child's  Kingship.  I  was  not  an 
angel  who  had  brought  to  Herbert's  mother 
this  message  of  her  son's  divine  rights.  But 
I  was  a  kindergartner,  and  she  had  the 
mother-heart  that  eagerly  listens  to  such  mes- 
sages, no  matter  who  or  what  the  messenger 
may  be. 


GERTRUDE'S  STORY. 


Gertrude  had  gone  with  her  mother  to  a 
summer  encampment  where,  during  the  sum- 
mer, several  missionary  conferences,  and  one 
or  two  literary  institutes  were  to  be  held — not 
that  Gertrude  cared  particularly  for  either 
missionary  conferences  or  literary  institutes. 
She  was  a  young  woman  of  a  practical  turn  of 
mind,  but  her  mother  was  devoted  to  "the 
improvement  of  the  sex"  and  was  never  hap- 
pier than  when  in  attendance  upon  a  conven- 
tion of  some  sort.  Besides,  this  summer  re- 
sort offered  rowing  and  sailing  as  added  at- 
tractions and  Gertrude  had  been  teaching  all 
year  and  wanted  the  fresh  out-of-doors  life 
these  latter  offered. 

I  fear  I  may  have  given  you  a  wrong  impres- 
sion of  my  friend  Gertrude.  She  was  fond 
of  her  kindergarten  work,  and  loved  each 
child  in  it  with  an  intensity  that  was  almost 
pathetic;  it  showed  so  clearly  how  hungry  the 
mother-heart  within  her  was.  Notwithstand- 
ing her  study  of  "the  fundamental  interests  of 
childhood,"  and  "the  universal  tendency  of 

I5i 


152  Misunderstood  Children. 

the  race,"  each  child  was  to  her  a  joy,  a  won- 
der, a  marvelous  being,  entirely  unlike  any 
other  mortal. 

Therefore,  I  was  not  surprised  that  she  re- 
turned from  her  outing  with  many  new  and 
interesting  stories  of  this  and  that  child  who 
had  attracted  her  ever  ready  interest.  Among 
the  stories  was  the  following:  I  will  give  it 
as  nearly  as  I  can  in  Gertrude's  own  lan- 
guage. She  came  in  with  the  fresh,  breezy 
way  which  was  one  of  her  gifts,  tossed  her  hat 
on  the  sofa  and  dropped  into  a  rocking-chair 
and  began,  "I  haven't  told  you  of  that  awful 
game  the  children  played  one  afternoon  while 
we  were  at  Silver  Lake,  have  I?"  "No;  what 
was  it?"  "Well,  one  morning  mamma  was 
bent  on  having  me  go  with  her  to  a  mother's 
missionary  meeting,  where  Dr.  Agnes  Blank 
was  going  to  speak  on  'The  little  heathen  of 
our  city  slums.'  "  "That  was  a  good  subject 
for  women  to  think  about,  I  am  sure,"  I  re- 
plied. "Did  you  go?"  "No,  I  didn't,"  she  an- 
swered, emphatically.  "I  can't  bear  to  hear 
people  talk  about  these  children  as  if  they 
were  diseased,  or  had  to  be  set  apart  from 
other  children !  I  would  far  rather  take  one 
dear,  dirty  little  urchin  up  in  my  arms  and 


Gertrude's  Story.  153 

carry  him  over  to  where  I  could  wash  his  face 
and  hands,  and  then  coddle  him  up  in  my  lap 
and  tell  him  a  great  big  fairy  tale,  which 
would  make  his  eyes  dance,  than  to  hear  all 
the  well-fed,  well-dressed  women  in  Christen- 
dom talk  about  'the  slum-children.'  " 

She  gave  her  head  a  defiant  toss,  and  con- 
tinued, "I  took  mamma  to  the  door  of  the  big 
tent  and  then  I  strolled  off  to  where  I  saw  a 
group  of  children  at  play.  The  children  were 
evidently  from  a  number  of  different  families, 
and  were  not  accustomed  to  playing  together, 
but  they  all  knew  the  game  of  which  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you.  It  is  called  'crossing  the 
brook.'  The  children  sat  in  a  row  on  a  log 
which  they  called  their  home.  With  a  stick 
they  had  drawn  a  deep  line  in  the  sand.  This 
represented  the  brook.  The  little  girl  chosen 
to  play  the  mother  stood  in  front  of  the  rest 
of  them  with  a  long  stick  in  her  hand.  She 
was  extremely  dramatic,  throwing  herself  into 
play  with  an  intensity  that  made  my  heart 
ache,  it  showed  so  much  power  so  poorly 
used."  The  impulsive  young  kindergartner 
stopped  short  in  her  narrative,  and,  turning 
her  head  away,  stared  out  of  the  window. 
I  waited  a  moment  or  two   and  then  said, 


154  Misunderstood  Children. 

"Well,  what  about  the  game  ?"  "Oh,  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  a  right  to  talk  about  it.  I 
ought  to  have  joined  in  with  them  and  taught 
the  blessed  little  souls  some  better  game ;  I 
knew  a  score  that  they  would  have  enjoyed 
just  as  heartily.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  criti- 
cise than  to  help  set  things  right."  "But 
what  of  the  game  ?"  I  said,"Tell  me  about  it." 
"Perhaps  I  am  foolish,"  she  said,  "but  it 
hurt  me.  It  was  this :  The  child  who  was 
playing  the  part  of  mother  walked  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  row  of  children  much  as 
a  policeman  might  walk  back  and  forth  in 
front  of  a  row  of  prisoners,  then  another  child 
jumped  up  and  exclaimed,  'Mother,  may  I  go 
out  to  play?'  'No,'  answered  the  mother, 
sharply.  'Oh,  Mother,  I  want  to  go  out  to 
play!'  cried  the  child.  'I  don't  care,  you  shan't 
go  !'  said  the  mother,  shaking  the  stick  at  her. 
'Why  can't  I  go  out  to  play?'  whined  the 
child.  'Because  I  say  you  can't,'  shouted  the 
mother,  flourishing  the  stick  in  the  air. 
'Please  let  me  go'  whined  the  child.  'No,  I 
won't,'  cried  the  mother,  stamping  her  foot. 
'Oh,  please  let  me  go,'  again  whined  the  child. 
Then  she  pretended  to  cry.  'Oh,  well,'  said 
the  dramatic  little  mother,  in  a  tone  of  utter 


Gertrude's  Story.  155 

weariness  of  spirit,  'if  you  begin  to  cry  I 
s'pose  I  shall  have  to  let  you  go,  you  little 
tease!  But  don't  go  across  the  brook!  There, 
go  along  with  you  !'  " 

Gertrude  was  re-enacting  the  scene  so  viv- 
idly that  she  unconsciously  gave  a  shove  to  an 
imaginary  child  in  front  of  her,  and  her  own 
tone  was  that  of  a  weak,  querulous  mother 
yielding  to  her  child's  entreaty,  even  though 
it  was  against  her  own  judgment.  I  smiled, 
but  my  storyteller  did  not  notice  it. 

"Of  course,"  she  continued,  throwing  out 
her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  "The 
child  in  the  game  immediately  ran  over  the 
brook  to  the  other  side,  where  she  danced  up 
and  down  in  triumphant  glee  while  each  of 
the  other  children  went  through  the  same  do- 
mestic drama  of  coaxing,  cajoling,  whining 
and  teasing,  until  the  mother's  consent  had 
been  obtained  for  each  to  go  out  to  play,  the 
final  injunction  every  time  being,  'But  don't 
go  across  the  brook.' 

"After  all  the  children  were  across  the 
brook  the  mother  suddenly  seemed  to  awaken 
to  her  responsibility,  and  cried  out,  'My  chil- 
dren!  my  children!  It  is  after  dark!  Where 
are  my  children?'     Then  she  called  out  in  a 

11 


156  Misunderstood  Children. 

tone  of  assumed  distress,  'Children!'  'What?' 
answered  the  children,  impudently.  'Where 
are  you?'  called  the  mother,  peering  to  right 
and  left  with  her  hand  shading  her  eyes  as  if 
searching  the  darkness  for  her  neglected  off- 
spring. 'Where  are  you?'  she  cried  again. 
'Across  the  brook!'  they  shouted  in  chorus. 
'How  shall  I  get  to  you?'  called  the  mother. 
'With  sticks  and  stones  !'  shouted  the  children, 
derisively.  'What  if  I  break  my  bones?' 
called  the  mother.  'We'll  be  glad  of  it !  we'll 
be  glad  of  it !  Goody !  goody !  goody !'  shouted 
the  children.  Then  they  all  ran  wildly  about, 
the  mother  chasing  them  with  her  stick.  The 
one  she  first  touched  with  her  stick  was 
mother  next  time,  and  the  game  was  repeated 
with  a  little  more  roughness  and  insolence 
each  time.  It  was  evidently  a  game  made  by 
children,  not  by  grown  people.  But  what  do 
you  think  of  it?"  Gertrude  was  leaning  for- 
ward now,  her  blue  eyes  looking  earnestly  into 
mine.  Then  she  added  without  waiting  for  my 
reply,  "What  do  you  think  the  mother  of  two 
of  these  children  said  to  me  when  that  evening 
I  told  her  of  the  game  ?"  "What  ?"  I  asked. 
"  'Oh,  well,'  she  drawled  out,  'I  don't  think  it 
matters  much  what  children  play,  so  that  they 


Gertrude's  Story.  157 

are  occupied  and  keep  out  of  mischief.' 
'What  do  you  call  mischief?'  said  I.  'Oh,  so 
they  don't  play  with  fire  or  get  into  the  water.' 
And  yet  that  woman,"  exclaimed  Gertrude, 
rising  to  her  feet  to  add  emphasis  to  her 
words,  "that  woman  had  subscribed  twenty 
dollars  that  very  morning  to  the  fund  for  the 
improvement  of  the  morals  of  the  'slum- 
children!'  What  do  you  think  of  such  a 
mother?"  "I  think,"  I  replied,  "that  she  was 
like  thousands  of  other  mothers  who  do  not 
understand  the  deep  significance  of  play,  or 
the  influence  which  the  part  that  a  child  plays 
has  upon  him.  If  mothers  understood  that 
the  emotions  are  more  easily  stirred  through 
play  and  the  interest  more  readily  awakened 
by  it  than  in  any  other  way,  we  would  have 
kindergartens  springing  up  all  over  the  land." 
Gertrude  sighed  and  dropped  into  a  chair  as 
she  exclaimed,  "When  will  that  day  come!" 


MISS  ELEANOR'S  GARDEN. 


Miss  Eleanor  Hutchlns  was  what  you 
might  have  called  "a  typical  old  maid"— that 
is,  if  you  had  never  seen  her  garden  in  spring 
or  summer,  or  had  never  chanced,  on  a  cold 
winter's  day,  to  pass  her  bay-window,  gor- 
geous with  bright  rows  of  blossoming  plants 
and  green  ferns. 

Somehow,  garden  plants  grew  and  multi- 
plied in  her  side  garden  as  nowhere  else,  and 
potted  plants  bloomed  all  winter  long  in  her 
windows,  as  if  touched  by  an  enchantress' 
wand.  Perhaps  the  love  and  care  she  be- 
stowed upon  them  was  a  kind  of  magic  felt 
by  them.  How  do  we  know  how  much  plants 
can  feel  the  mood  of  the  human  being  who 
tends  them?  That's  a  question  the  scientists 
of  the  future  will  have  to  answer. 

However,  if  you  had  ever  leaned  over  the 
picket  fence  to  look  at  her  tall  hollyhocks  in 
the  rear,  with  the  eastern  sunlight  shining 
through  their  crimson  and  pink  cup-shaped 
blossoms,  making  them  look  like  huge  jewels, 
or  to  wonder  at  the  profusion  of  the  white, 

158 


Miss  Eleanor's  Garden.  159 

pink,  lilac,  purple  and  yellow  asters,  or  to 
sniff  the  spicy  odor  of  her  red  and  yellow  nas- 
turtiums that  rioted  in  rich  abandon  over  the 
side  fence  as  no  other  nasturtiums  this  side  of 
California  ever  dared  to  riot,  or  to  admire 
her  dignified  row  of  foxgloves,superbly  aristo- 
cratic in  their  exclusive  hues  and  tones  of 
color,  you  would  never  have  thought  of  her 
spinsterhood,  not  to  speak  of  the  appeal  that 
would  be  made  to  you  by  the  more  modest 
beauty  of  the  heliotrope  and  quiet  mignon- 
ette, to  say  nothing  of  the  border  of  pert 
English  daisies  and  saucy  pansies — I  say  if 
you  had  this  experience,  or  had  ever  had  the 
more  subtle  pleasure  of  finding  that  you  had 
involuntarily  smiled  back  courteous  return 
for  the  smile  which  her  winter  window  boxes 
had  seemed  to  give  you,  you  would  have 
known  that  a  motherly,  warm-hearted  woman 
lived  in  the  little  white  house  shaded  by  the 
two  tall  elms  in  front. 

Miss  Eleanor's  garden  was  the  pride  of  the 
neighborhood,  as  well  as  one  of  the  deep 
joys  of  her  life;  so  when  the  new  family 
moved  into  the  red  brick  house  next  door,  and 
it  became  known  that  they  were  well-to-do 
city  folks  and  had  moved  to  a  country  town  on 


160  Misunderstood  Children. 

account  of  their  only  child,  a  boy  of  eight, 
there  were  many  misgivings  and  shaking  of 
heads,  for  our  village  people  had  learned 
from  sad  experience  that  city  boys,  usually 
summer  boarders  or  visiting  relatives,  knew 
and  cared  nothing  for  nature's  beauty.  They 
generally  betrayed  their  inner  savage  condi- 
tion by  skinning  the  bark  off  of  the  tree 
trunks,  swinging  on  slender  branches  until 
they  broke  them  off,  trampling  down  the 
flower  beds  unless  they  were  stopped,  and 
when  allowed  to  go  into  the  fields  to  gather 
wild  flowers,  grabbing  handfuls  of  them,  and 
frequently  pelting  each  other  with  them. 

Such  conduct  seemed  nothing  short  of  crim- 
inal to  our  small  community,  most  of  whom 
could  not  understand  that  these  dreaded  city 
boys,  never  having  been  taught  to  love  nature, 
were  merely  manifesting  the  savage  delight  of 
showing  their  mastery  over  her  by  abusing 
her  and  destroying  her  beauty. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  plantin'  yer  garden  this 
year,  Miss  Eleanor,"  grumbled  the  old  gar- 
dener who  for  thirty  years  had  spaded  and 
raked  Miss  Eleanor's  garden  for  her.  "That 
there  boy  next  door  will  tear  up  everything 
you  plant.    I  never  seen  such  a  destructive  fel- 


Miss  Eleanor's  Gut  den.  1 6 1 

lcr !  He  jest  sets  on  the  grass  and  pulls  it  up 
by  the  handful  and  throws  it  at  the  dog.  I  seen 
him  break  off  a  great  big  limb  from  ol'  Miss 
Grayson's  lilac  bush,  jest  fur  sheer  cussedness. 
He  never  done  nothin'  with  it,  jest  thrashed  it 
around  a  bit  and  then  throwed  it  away.  You 
ain't  a-goin'  to  be  able  to  keep  your  garden 
like  it  used  to  be,  with  that  there  boy  next 
door,"  and  the  old  man  shook  his  head.  Miss 
Eleanor  smiled.  She  had  a  way  of  getting 
along  amicably  with  most  people,  and  she  did 
not  doubt  her  ability  to  do  so  with  the  boy 
next  door.  Still,  she  was  wise  enough  to 
know  that  the  pent-up  energy  of  the  new 
neighbor's  boy  must  find  vent  somehow,  so 
early  next  day,  being  one  of  those  bright 
spring  days  that  makes  mere  existence  a  joy, 
she  called  pleasantly  to  the  boy,  asking  him  if 
he  would  not  come  over  and  dig  some  holes 
in  the  newly-prepared  garden,  as  she  wanted 
to  set  out  her  pansies.  What  boy  is  there  who 
could  resist  an  invitation  to  dig  holes  in  the 
ground  ?  It  is  a  racial  instinct,  and  dates  back 
thousands  of  years  to  those  old  Aryan  ances- 
tors who  changed  from  hunters  and  shep- 
herds to  tillers  of  the  soil. 

The  pale-faced  new  boy  was  over  the  fence 


1 62  Misunderstood  Children. 

in  a  minute,  and  soon  he  and  Miss  Eleanor 
were  busy  with  what  was  to  him  the  entirely 
new  and  delightful  activity,  namely  that  of 
setting  out  potted  plants.  Of  course,  Miss 
Eleanor  managed  to  have  two  pots  of 
pansies  left  over,  and  in  a  matter-of-fact  sort 
of  way  proposed  that  the  new  boy  should 
plant  them  in  his  garden.  "My  garden!"  ex- 
claimed the  boy.  A  sudden  light  leaped  up 
into  his  eyes  and  then  died  down  as  he  added, 
almost  derisively,  "Pshaw,  I  haven't  any  gar- 
den!" "But  you  can  have  one,"  said  Miss 
Eleanor.  "The  last  people  who  lived  in  that 
house  had  a  beautiful  garden.  You  can  dig  it 
up  yourself,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  plant 
it  and  care  for  it." 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  boy's  gar- 
den became  a  reality,  and  Miss  Eleanor  and 
he  became  fast  friends.  She  found  him  a  shy 
sensitive  lad,  terribly  afraid  of  being 
laughed  at.  It  seems  that  one  of  his  father's 
amusements  had  been  ridiculing  the  child  and 
making  fun  of  anything  he  said  that  was  at  all 
out  of  the  commonplace.  Of  course  the  father 
meant  no  harm  by  it.  He  was  working  hard 
to  pile  up  a  bank  account  for  the  boy  to  have 
by  and  by,  but  his  habit  of  making  fun  of 


Miss  Eleanor's  Garden.  163 

everything  that  the  boy  did  had  caused  the 
child  to  grow  silent  and  reserved  in  mere  self- 
defense. 

However,  few  people  could  resist  Miss 
Eleanor  Hutchins'  friendliness,  and  the  sun- 
shine and  fresh  air  helped  to  thaw  out  the  hid- 
den corners  in  the  child's  heart.  As  the  pale 
face  grew  tanned  in  the  open  air,  the  painful 
self-consciousness  grew  less  also,  because  he 
was  busy  now,  working  side  by  side  with  a 
friend  who  did  not  ridicule  everything  he  said, 
but  seemed  instead  to  be  really  interested  in 
what  he  was  thinking  of. 

One  morning,  about  two  months  after  the 
friendship  had  begun,  the  two  were  digging 
up  the  weeds  in  Miss  Eleanor's  pansy  border. 
"Why  do  you  want  the  weeds  dug  up  ?"  asked 
the  boy.  "Because  they  are  ugly  and  greedy," 
replied  Miss  Eleanor,  "They  take  all  the  best 
of  the  food  the  soil  has  to  give,  so  there  is  not 
enough  left  for  our  pretty  flowers."  "God 
made  the  flowers,  didn't  he?"  said  the  boy, 
stopping  suddenly.  "Yes,"  said  Miss  Eleanor, 
"and  isn't  it  wonderful,"  she  continued,  "how 
one  flower  will  come  up  yellow  and  another 
will  come  up  purple?"  She  lightly  touched  a 
nasturtium  blossom  and  a  pansy  with  the  tip 


164  Misunderstood  Children. 

of  her  trowel  as  she  spoke.  "And  yet  they 
both  come  out  of  the  same  ground  and  are 
warmed  by  the  same  sunshine  and  watered  by 
the  same  rain."  The  boy  nodded  his  head 
thoughtfully,  then  gazed  far  off  into  space  for 
a  few  minutes,  as  was  his  habit.  His  face  and 
attitude  showed  that  he  was  feeling  the  pres- 
ence of  a  power  beyond  man's  power,  that 
sense  of  infinite  mystery  which  comes  to  us 
all  when  once  we  really  think  of  the  marvel- 
ous miracles  which  nature  is  constantly  reveal- 
ing to  us.  It  was  perhaps  the  earliest  dawn  of 
the  religious  instinct  in  the  race — when  man 
began  to  look  through  nature  up  to  nature's 
God.  Miss  Eleanor  worked  on  in  silence. 
She  knew  the  boy  too  well  to  intrude  upon  his 
thoughts  just  then. 

By  and  by  some  soft,  tiny,  white  cotton- 
wood  seeds  floated  down  from  the  tall  tree  in 
the  neighboring  yard.  One  of  them  touched 
the  little  boy's  hand  and  settled  down  upon  it. 
"Tell  me  about  this,"  said  the  boy,  as  if  sud- 
denly awakening  from  a  dream.  He  held  out 
his  hand,  in  which  the  tiny  Cottonwood  seed 
lay.  "That,"  said  Miss  Eleanor,  "is  a  seed 
from  the  big  Cottonwood  tree  over  there.  All 
spring  it  has  been  growing  and  growing  and 


Miss  Eleanor's  Garden.  165 

drinking  more  and  more  of  the  rain  and 
juices  of  the  soil  that  came  to  it  from  its  roots 
far  down  underground,  and  everyday  it  has 
stretched  out  its  branches  just  a  little  farther, 
that  it  might  get  more  air  and  more  sunshine, 
so  that  it  could  make  these  tiny  little  seeds." 
As  she  spoke  she  took  the  small  seed  from  the 
boy's  hand  and  looked  admiringly  at  it,  as  one 
might  look  upon  a  jewel  or  a  rare  bit  of  carv- 
ing. The  boy  leaned  forward  and  looked 
eagerly  at  it  also.  "Tell  me  about  it,  all  about 
it,"  he  said,  in  an  earnest,  expectant  tone.  The 
woman  smiled.  The  miracles  of  the  seasons 
were  to  her  the  greatest  of  all  miracles,  and 
the  illumined  book  of  nature  was  her  favorite 
book.  "Did  you  ever  think  of  it,"  she  said, 
as  she  laid  down  her  trowel  and  picked  up  a 
number  of  the  white-winged  seeds  that  had 
drifted  into  a  small  heap  near  by,  "every  one 
of  these  tiny,  tiny  seeds  has  within  it  the 
power  to  become  a  great  big  Cottonwood  tree, 
as  large,  possibly,  as  that  great  big  tree  over 
there?" 

The  boy  involuntarily  moved  a  trifle  closer 
to  her,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  said  in  a 
low  tone,  "God  made  those  little  seeds  too, 
didn't  He?"  "Yes,"  she  answered,  reverently, 


1 66  Misunderstood  Children. 

"God  made  all  our  garden  and  all  the  trees 
and  everything  that  grows  in  all  the  fields. 
They  are  telling  us  how  good  and  wise  He 
is."  And  now  a  troubled,  puzzled  look  came 
into  the  boy's  face.  After  a  moment  of  em- 
barrassed silence  he  said,  somewhat  hesitat- 
ingly, as  if  fearing  a  rebuke,  "Why  did  God 
make  the  weeds  ugly  and  give  them  a  bad 
odor?  Why  didn't  He  make  them  as  beauti- 
ful as  He  made  the  flowers?"  The  mother- 
heart  in  the  woman  almost  stopped  beating. 
How  could  she  answer  that  question  so  as  to 
satisfy  the  young  soul  before  her?  He  had 
uttered  the  cry  of  all  humanity,  had  asked  the 
question  as  old  as  the  human  race.  "What  is 
evil?  Why  is  it  in  the  world?"  The  conflict 
of  the  inner  life  as  portrayed  in  that  oldest  of 
all  dramas,  the  story  of  Job,  rose  before  her. 
How  was  she  to  satisfy  this  childish  heart? 

"We  cannot  always  understand  why  God 
does  as  He  does,  but  we  know  that  He  is  wise 
and  good  because  we  see  so  many  good  and 
beautiful  things  around  us  that  He  has  put 
there  to  help  us.  But  I  think,"  she  added, 
softly,  "that  perhaps  He  wanted  us  to  under- 
stand Him  better  and  love  Him  more,  so  He 
has  let  us  help  Him  make  the  world  beautiful." 


Miss  Eleanor's  Garden.  167 

"You  know,"  she  continued,  a  rare  smile 
lighting  her  face  as  she  spoke,  "all  the  beauti- 
ful flowers  were  once  what  we  call  weeds,  and 
it  is  because  men  have  taken  care  of  them  and 
helped  them  to  grow  the  best  they  could  that 
they  have  changed  into  flowers.  And  these 
weeds  have  in  them  possibilities  of  becoming 
beautiful  flowers  if  we  will  only  learn  how  to 
take  care  of  them.  Don't  you  see,  God  is  let- 
ting us  help  take  care  of  the  world,  just  as 
I  let  you  help  me  take  care  of  my  garden  and 
you  let  me  help  you  take  care  of  your  garden. 
Isn't  it  a  wonderful  thought  that  we  can  help 
God  make  His  world  more  beautiful!" 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  his  hand 
reached  out  and  took  hold  of  hers.  They  sat 
thus  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Just  then 
his  mother  came  to  Her  back  door  and  called 
to  the  boy  to  come  home  and  study  his  Sun- 
day-school lesson.  It  was  a  rather  difficult 
lesson  that  week,  it  was  the  condemnation  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah. 

Miss  Eleanor  picked  up  her  garden  tools 
and,  putting  them  into  her  basket,  went  into 
her  own  house.  As  she  passed  through  the 
kitchen  the  maid  asked,  "What  have  you  been 


1 68  Misunderstood  Children. 

doing  this  morning?"  and  Eleanor  Hutchins, 
spinster,  answered  quietly,  "I  have  been  sow- 
ing some  seeds." 


NATIONAL  KINDERGARTEN  COLLEGE 

2944  Michigan  Boulevard,  Chicago,  III. 

PUBLICATION  DEPARTMENT 

A  STUDY  OF  CHILD  NATURE.    By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

Forty-sixth  American  edition ;  translated  into  six  foreign  lan- 
guages; used  as  text-book  in  state  normal  schools,  kindergarten 
training  schools,  mothers'  and  teachers'  study  classes  throughout 
the  country;  extensively  ordered  by  all  denominations  for  Sunday 
school  workers.  Every  parent,  teacher,  Sunday  school  worker 
and  student  should  possess  this  book.  Price,  $1.10,  postage 
prepaid. 

IN  STORYLAND.    By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

A    book    of    fifteen    charmingly    original     stories     for     children. 
"Nothing  better   since    Hans   Christian   Andersen."     Reprinted   in 
England.      Twenty-third   American    edition.     Price,    $1.16,    postage 
prepaid. 
TWO  CHILDREN  OF  THE  FOOTHILLS.     By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

A  story  from  real  life,  showing  the  practical  use  of  kindergar- 
ten principles  in  the  home.  Translated  into  Swedish  and  Japa- 
nese; used  as  text-book  in  Japan.  Fifth  edition.  Price,  $1.16, 
postage  prepaid. 

WHEN  CHILDREN  ERR.     By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

This  book  contains  many  experiences  and  observations  of  the 
just  and  unjust  punishment  of  children.  It  tells  how  to  remedy 
faults  without  injuring  self-respect  or  alienating  their  affection. 
Price,  $1.10,  postpaid. 

THE  KINDERGARTEN  BUILDING  GIFTS.    By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

A  treatise  on  the  kindergarten  gifts  and  how  to  use  them. 
Contains  more  than  200  illustrative  lessons,  with  many  more 
suggestions.      Fourth   edition.      Price,    $1.16,   postage   prepaid. 

SOME  SILENT  TEACHERS.     By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

"This  is  one  of  the  few  really  great  books  on  education,  and 
should  be  read  by  all  teachers  in  every  grade  and  department  of 
school  work."     Third  edition.     Price,   $1.10,  postage  prepaid. 

THE  VISION  OF  DANTE.     By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

A  story  for  little  children  and  a  talk  for  their  mothers.  "The 
Vision  of  Dante,  written  for  the  first  time  for  little  children,  is 
told  to  them  by  that  queen  of  story-tellers."  Printed  on  Wind- 
sor hand-made  paper,  beautifully  bound,  illustrated  by  Walter 
Crane.     Price,  $1.05  and  $1.15,  postage  prepaid. 

OFFERO.  THE  GIANT.     By  Elizabeth  Harrison. 

A  Christmas  story  adapted  from  one  of  the  legends  of  olden 
times.     Illustrated.     Price,   54  cents,  postage  prepaid. 


^Aavaaitt^      y0Anvyain^ 


5? 


I  |  fi  r\    i    rvl  / 


DO 


\EUNIVER%       ^lOSAUGElfj> 


r.       ^IQS-ANGElfc* 


"%3AINIHW 


IBRARY0A 


^OJIIYD-JO^ 


^OF-CALIFORfc 


kavaan-i^ 


v\T.IIRDADY/l* 


^WEUNI 


L 


3  VI 


if 


^ 


oo 


3> 


FORto 


AWEUNIVERV/v        ^vlOSANGELfjVK 


3  1158  00814  71- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


SECT)  LD  URL 

FEB  041984 


I0NAL  LIBRARY  FACI 


391  322    5 


\ 


%. 


v\ir  ill 


